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Wfym tlje ^ong "Begins 



Wt*n+ Bn Sitiller^ Books 



COME YE APART. 

DR. MILLER'S YEAR BOOK. 

FINDING THE WAY. 

GLIMPSES THROUGH LIFE'S WINDOWS. 

MAKING THE MOST OF LIFE. 

PERSONAL FRIENDSHIPS OF JESUS. 

SILENT TIMES. 

STRENGTH AND BEAUTY. 

THE BUILDING OF CHARACTER. 

THE EVERY DAY OF LIFE. 

THE GOLDEN GATE OF PRAYER. 

THE HIDDEN LIFE. 

THE JOY OF SERVICE. 

THE LESSON OF LOVE. 

THE MINISTRY OF COMFORT. 

THE STORY OF A BUSY LIFE. 

THE UPPER CURRENTS. 

THINGS TO LIVE FOR. 

YOUNG PEOPLE'S PROBLEMS. 



Booklets 



A GENTLE HEART. 

BY THE STILL WATERS. 

GIRLS; FAULTS AND IDEALS. 

HOW? WHEN? WHERE? 

IN PERFECT PEACE. 

LOVING MY NEIGHBOUR. 

MARY OF BETHANY. 

SECRETS OF HAPPY HOME LIFE. 

SUMMER GATHERING. 

THE BLESSING OF CHEERFULNESS. 

THE FACE OF THE MASTER. 

THE INNER LIFE. 

THE MARRIAGE ALTAR. 

THE SECRET OF GLADNESS. 

THE TRANSFIGURED LIFE. 

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 

UNTO THE HILLS. 

YOUNG MEN; FAULTS AND IDEALS. 



Qffiottra* 1§* Crotofcil & Corapang 
Beta gorft 



38egitt0 



J. E. MILLER 

AUTHOR OF 
SILENT TIMES," "MAKING THE MOST OF LIFE," 
"UPPER CURRENTS," ETC., ETC. 



"The heart that suffers, most may sing: 
All beauty seems of sorrow bom: 
The gems of thought most highly prized 
Are tears of sorrow crystallized." 



$eto iorft 

THOMAS Y. CROWE LL & CO. 
PUBLISHERS 

c c i IcSj 






OONGRES? 
Two Copies riecwvtn* 

SEP, 2 mb 
copy a* 



Copyright, 1905, by T. Y. Crowell 8? Co. 



LC Control Number 




tmp96 027954 



PREFACE 



J. HE chapters of this little book are intended 
to help people in learning how to live. They are 
meant to translate the teachings of the Christian 
Scriptures into the language of the common 
days and the common experiences of life, so that 
even a child may understand them. Such a 
book as this may not be called Literature, hit 
if it helps some people to live more beautifully, 
more victoriously, more usefully, it will have 
served its mission, and made itself worth while. 

J. R. M. 

Philadelphia, U. S. A. 



TITLES OF CHAPTERS 



I. When the Song Begins Page 3 

II. The Mystery of Suffering 17 

III. The Blossoming of Our Thorns 31 

IV. More White than Black 43 
V. The Master and the Doubter 55 

VI. "It is Well" 67 

VII. The Joy of the Cross 79 

VIII. The Quest of Happiness 91 

IX. Obedience that Pleases Christ 105 

X. Friendship with Christ 117 

XI. The Unrecognized Christ 131 

XII. Living up to Our Prayers 145 

XIII. Finishing Our Work 159 

XIV. What Doest Thou Here 173 
XV. Courage to Live Nobly 185 

XVI. "Get Leave to Work" 199 

XVII. Into the Desert 211 

XVIII. His Brother Also 223 

XIX. The Odor of the Ointment 235 

XX. Under the All-Seeing Eye 247 



Wfyzn ttye ^>ong TBegfng 



[i] 



Back of the gloom — 

The bloom! 
Back of the strife — 
Sweet life. 
And flowering meadows that glow and gleam, 
Where the winds sing joy and the daisies dream. 
And the sunbeams color the quickening clod, 
And faith in the future, and trust in God. 
Back of the gloom — 
The bloom! 

Fronting the night — 

The light! 
Under the snows — 
The rose! 
And the vales sing joy to the misty hills, 
And the wild winds ripple it down the rills; 
And the far stars answer the song that swells 
With all the music of all the bells ! 
Fronting the night — 
The light! 

— Frank L. Stanton. 



[2] 



CHAPTER FIRST 



W^tn t^e ^ong 'Begins 




HEY have a saying in the 
East that in Oriental 
countries the birds never 
sing, the flowers have no 
fragrance, and the women 
never smile. Heathen re- 
ligions put no sweetness into life, kindle no 
joy in the heart, start no songs. They do 
not comfort sorrow nor wipe away tears. 
But the religion of the Bible is one of glad- 
ness. It teaches us to sing, not only on the 
happy days, but on the dark days as well. 
The Old Testament has much music in it. 
Then the New Testament is full of song. It 
opens with an overture by a great choir of 
angels. The first message to the shepherds, 
announcing the birth of the Saviour, told of 
joy for all who would accept it. Christ 
marked out the way of joy in all His teaching. 
He offered rest of soul to all who would come 

[3] 



to Him, take His yoke upon them and learn 
of Him. He said He would give His own peace 
to those who would let it into their hearts. 
He expressed a desire that His joy might be 
fulfilled in the lives of His friends. He bade 
His followers be of good cheer, because He 
had overcome the world. 

Then after the Resurrection and Ascension, 
and the coming of the Holy Spirit, we find 
the church a company of rejoicing people. 
" They took their food with gladness and 
singleness of heart, praising God." They met 
persecution and suffering, but nothing could 
silence their songs. Their joy was quenchless. 
St. Paul, the greatest sufferer of all, was like- 
wise the most joyous of all. No chains, no 
dungeons, no scourgings, no losses, could stop 
his singing. Out of his prison life he wrote 
to one of the churches, " Rejoice in the Lord 
always; again I will say, Rejoice." 
But what is the secret? When does the song 
begin ? What is it that gives to the believer in 
God this quenchless joy? In the record of 
the opening of the temple by Hezekiah occurs 

[4] 



a sentence which suggests the answer. The 
sacrifices were ready for offering. At the same 
time the great temple choir was waiting, 
ready to break forth into song. But not a 
note was heard until the sacrifices began to 
burn upon the altar. The record is, " When 
the burnt-offering began, the song of the 
Lord began also." The moment the offering 
was laid upon the altar and the holy fire be- 
gan to consume it, the great choir began to 
sing. 

These ancient burnt-offerings were an expres- 
sion of personal devotion and consecration to 
God. It is when this surrender of our lives 
to God is made, and not till then, that the 
song begins in our hearts. 
Yet somehow a good many people seem to 
think a religious life cannot be a joyous life. 
They get the idea that it is a life of self- 
sacrifice, but they cannot think of self- 
sacrifice as joyous. One man said to another, 
referring to something they were talking 
about, " I suppose it must be my duty, be- 
cause I hate it so." That is the way many 

[5] 



people think about duty. But really there is 
no other life so full of deep, abiding joy as 
the life of self-sacrifice in the service of 
Christ. 

It is well worth while for us to learn this 
lesson. Work is immeasurably harder if we do 
it only as task-work, because we must. No 
one can ever make much of his life if he works 
reluctantly, perfunctorily. Joy gives strength 
and skill. And the lowliest tasks may be made 
a delight, if only we think of them as part of 
God's will for us. No doubt Jesus was an en- 
thusiastic carpenter. He went out each morn- 
ing to His day's tasks with a song. It ought 
to help other carpenters and all of us in our 
common vocations to work gladly to remem- 
ber that our Master toiled too, wrought with 
His hands, and did it cheerfully, sweetly, 
songfully. 

" Yes j yes, a carpenter, same trade as mine. 
It warms my heart as 1 read that line. 
I can stand the hard work, I can stand the poor 

vay, 

For Vll see that Carpenter at no distant day. )y 

[6] 



There are transforming motives if only we 
can get them into our hearts. Love has power 
to transfigure the dreary tasks into delights. 
You have seen a young girl, light-hearted, 
care-free, with scarcely ever a serious thought 
in her mind. She seemed to think only of her- 
self. She was self-indulgent, never denying 
herself anything she wanted. She never sac- 
rificed her own comfort for another. By and 
by you saw her a mother, with a baby in her 
arms. Now her life was altogether changed. 
Love had blossomed out and possessed her. 
She cared now for her child with intense and 
self-forgetful devotion. She thought no 
longer of her own ease or comfort. There was 
no more in her any spirit of self-indulgence. 
Then she did everything, the dreariest task, 
gladly, joyously. There was no complaint, no 
fretting. Love had taught her the lesson of 
self-devotion, and her heart sang as she 
wrought. 

There are men who once had little interest in 
their work, who did it only because they must, 
who were indolent, self-indulgent, extrava- 

[7] 



gant. By and by they became heads of little 
families, for whose wants they must provide. 
Then all was changed. They went to their 
tasks with a new zest. Love put energy into 
their spirit, strength into their arms, skill into 
their fingers. They never had known such hap- 
piness before. " When the burnt-offering be- 
gan, the song of the Lord began also." Men 
do not know how much of their enthusiasm 
in bearing their burdens, in enduring their 
struggles, in meeting obstacles, in overcoming 
difficulties, is inspired by love for the dear 
ones in their homes, for whose care, comfort, 
and protection they are responsible. It is this 
love that puts the song into their hearts. 
It is not the fashion to idealize fathers. 
Mothers are idealized, and rightly so. Mother- 
love is likest God's love, of all holy human 
passions. Mothers everywhere devote them- 
selves to the care of their children and sac- 
rifice their ease and strength with complete 
self-abandonment that they may give these 
children what they need. They lose their rest. 
They give up their own comfort. They pour 

[8] 



Wtyu t^e ^>ong 'Begins 

out their very life in love's ministering. No 
one needs to ask the motive of this holy serv- 
ing and self-sacrificing. It is found in the 
sacredness of the home, in the little child's 
sick-room, in the nursery, where there always 
are tasks and needs. God bless the mothers. 
They deserve highest honor. They go 
through all love's services and sacrifices with 
a gladness that never fails. Who ever heard 
a true mother complain of the burdens or the 
cares of love? She does all cheerfully. When 
the self-sacrifice begins, the song begins, too; 
and as the burdens grow heavier, and the 
need for self-denial grows greater, the song 
becomes louder and richer in its melody. 
But though there be, perhaps, less poetry in 
father-love, there is much in it that is very 
sacred and ofttimes heroic. There are fa- 
thers who live with their children with noble 
self-abandonment. There are men who have 
made a splendid success of their lives, build- 
ing up a fortune, growing to honor in 
their profession, rising to noble character and 
influence, the secret of all their energy, skill, 

[9] 



and achievement being found in the quiet 
homes to which they hurry each evening when 
their work is done. As the responsibility of 
love came upon them the song began, and they 
went each day to take up the growing bur- 
den with increasing joy in their hearts. Love 
makes true men laugh at hard tasks and ex- 
hausting toil. 

Human love is a marvellous transfigurer 
of dreary things, homely duties, dull tasks. 
It wakes up the best that is in life, and calls 
out its sweetest songs. But there is another 
love which has still more wondrous power — 
love for Christ. " Whom not having seen, 
we love." If only we can get this mighty mo- 
tive into our hearts it will change everything 
in life for us. It surpasses all earthly love in 
its power to inspire service, sacrifice, and 
song. If we have not learned to sing at our 
work, to make monotonous duty a delight, to 
find joy in self-sacrifice, we need but to look 
at the face of Christ, remembering His love 
and its infinite sacrifice — for us. Then think 
that these things which seem so dreary, so 

[10] 



hard, so costly, in self-denial and sacrifice, 
are simply His biddings, bits of His will for 
us; then, as we think, love will spring up in 
our hearts, love for our Master, and all will 
be transformed, transfigured. 
A singer told the story of how all had been 
changed for her. She sang only for ambition, 
because she hoped to gather fame and wealth. 
But one Sunday she went to sing in a prison, 
after the minister had preached. Among the 
convicts was one with strangely sad and hun- 
gry eyes. " I sang to that one man," the 
singer said, " and as I sang, a power that was 
never mine before was given me. The tears 
rained down the man's cheeks as he listened. 
Faces all about him began to soften." It was 
a holy moment for the singer. She had risen 
out of mere professionalism, and her soul had 
been touched and thrilled by the love of 
Christ. From that day all was new for her. 
When does the song begin in time of sorrow? 
" Ah," someone says, " I cannot sing then. 
Surely it is not expected that I shall sing 
when my dead are lying before me." Yes; 

[ii] 



the Christian is always to sing. " Rejoice 
always," means on the day when crape is on 
the door, as well as on the day when all is 
bright within. Some day we shall know that 
every sorrow in our lives held a secret of joy 
for us. The song begins only, however, when 
we submit ourselves to God in our grief, ac- 
quiescing without question in His will and 
opening our hearts to receive whatever bless- 
ing He has sent to us in the sorrow. Job had 
learned this lesson when he said, " The Lord 
gave, and the Lord hath taken away." The 
words imply perfect trust, and at once the 
song began in the patriarch's life, for he 
added, " Blessed be the name of the Lord." 
So always, even in the deepest grief, when we 
can say and mean it, " Thy will, not mine, be 
done," the song begins. 

One of the worst perils of Christian lives lies 
in the line of self-indulgence. We take too 
good care of ourselves. We keep ourselves 
back from hard tasks and stern self-denials. 
We choose the easy things. Consequently, we 
do not find the joy that is possible in Chris- 

[12] 



Wtym tye £a>ong "Begins 

tian living. Some Christians seem never to 
learn the lesson at all. They go through a 
course of formal service, but they are never 
happy in it, are never enthusiastic followers 
of Christ. The trouble is, they have just a 
little religion, enough to make life harder in 
the way of restraint and limitation, but not 
enough to start the song. They measure their 
piety, they calculate their service, they know 
nothing of full abandonment to Christ. They 
always go the one required mile, but never go 
the second mile of love. There will never be 
any song in such Christian living. Only in 
entire surrender and devotion to Christ can 
we learn to sing the new song. If we would 
find joy in our religion, we must abandon our- 
selves altogether to Christ. Many of us serve 
Christ so daintily, so delicately, with so much 
self-reserve and withholding of ourselves from 
sacrifice that we never learn the reality of 
the joy of Christ. When we devote ourselves 
to Him wholly, the song will begin. 



[13] 



C^e jtt?0tet^ of l^uffertna 



[15] 



"It is pleasant to think, just under the snow, 
That stretches so bleak and blank and cold, 
Are beauty and warmth that we cannot know — 
Green fields and blossoms of gold. 

" Yes, under this frozen and dumb expanse, 
Ungladdened by bee or bird or flower, 
A world where the leaping fountains glance^ 
And the buds expand, is waiting its hour' 1 



[16] 



CHAPTER SECOND 



C^e fflymty of buffeting 




HE why of suffering has 
ever been among the most 
serious problems of life. 
When Jesus showed sym- 
pathy with a man who 
had been born blind, His 
disciples started the question, " Rabbi, who 
sinned, this man, or his parents, that he 
should be born blind ? " They were quite sure 
that somebody had sinned, and that this blind- 
ness was the result. That was the common 
belief of those days. It was thought that any- 
one who suffered in misfortune or was over- 
taken by calamity had sinned, and that his 
misfortune or calamity was visited on him be- 
cause of his sin. 

There is much of this belief still in the world. 
In the " Spectator " is this message : " An old 
maiden gentlewoman, whom I shall conceal 
under the name of Nemesis, is the greatest 

[17] 



discoverer of judgments that I have met with. 
She can tell you what sin it was that set such 
a man's house on fire, or blew down his barns. 
She has a crime for every misfortune that can 
befall any of her acquaintance — in short, she 
is so good a Christian that whatever happens 
to herself is a trial, and whatever happens to 
her neighbor is a judgment." 
The old question, why the good suffer and 
the wicked escape suffering, is to many a per- 
plexing question. Only the other day a bril- 
liant literary woman who has fallen into mis- 
fortune, wrote, " A depression blacker than 
you can conceive is now upon me. I know I 
never can write again. And both my sister 
and I are penniless — worse, in debt. ... I 
write this to ask you, in view of this irreme- 
diable disaster, what you think of God." This 
pitiful cry is from one half-crazed by mis- 
fortune, but there are many others who, more 
sanely than this poor woman, persist in ask- 
ing the question, in time of great trouble, 
" What do you think now of God? " A sor- 
rowing father, after watching by the dying 

[18] 



C^e jttygterr of buffeting 

bed of a beloved child, said, " Had it been in 
my power to bear her pain for her, how 
gladly would I have done it ! I could not bear 
to see her suffer ; how is it that God could? " 
The problem of the why of suffering presses 
on every life, on every heart, in some way, 
at some time. As one writes : 

" This is the cry 
That echoes through the wilderness of earth, 
Through song and sorrow, day of death and 

birth : 
Why? 

11 It is the high 
Wail of the child with all his life to face, 
Man's last dumb question as he reaches space: 
Why? n 

We remember that even Jesus, in one terrible 
hour on the cross, asked, " Why ? " He could 
not understand the awful mystery of His own 
suffering. Faith did not lose its hold, how- 
ever, for it was still, " My God, my God," 
even when the bitter cry was, " Why — why 
hast thou forsaken me? " 

[19] 



" His cure was this : to hold fast through the night, 
Though bowed and blind with the dust of the 

fight — 
'God , God as my God, unseen, but my right.'" 

There is no one of us who may not some time 
cry out in the darkness, asking, " Why this 
pain, this suffering, this mystery of trou- 
ble? " It is a relief for us to know that the 
gospel has its answers for the question. Jesus 
gave an answer to His disciples that day on 
the street. 

First, He told them plainly that their belief 
was not true. He said, " Neither did this man 
sin, nor his parents." He did not mean that 
the man and his parents were sinless. He 
meant that the misfortune of blindness had 
not been brought on him by sin. Nor did He 
mean that sickness, blindness, and other dis- 
eases and calamities are never due to sin. 
Many times they are. Sin does, indeed, bring 
curse and calamity to many lives. But Jesus 
here guards His disciples against supposing 
that always, that as a rule, suffering comes 
from sin. It is a fearful mistake to say to 

[20] 



€^e ffiyztzty of buffeting 

everyone who has trouble, that he has com- 
mitted some sin and that his trouble is in pun- 
ishment for it. Nor should a good man say, 
when he is visited by affliction, " I wonder 
what I have done that God is punishing 
me so." 

Jesus did not merely say that the old belief 
that sin was the cause of all suffering was un- 
true; He gave a wonderful solution of the 
mystery of trouble. He said that the blindness 
had come upon this man, " that the works of 
God should be made manifest in him." We 
are not to speculate and guess about the 
cause of any man's trouble, wondering whose 
fault it was, but are to set about at once 
doing all we can to relieve his suffering or 
heal his hurt. This man's misfortune became 
an occasion to Jesus for a miracle of mercy. 
If it had not been for his blindness, this op- 
portunity of manifesting this work of God 
would have been missed. Every time we come 
upon a human need, suffering or sorrow in 
any form, there is an opportunity for us to 
manifest the works of God by showing kind- 

[21] 



ness, by giving comfort, by helping in what- 
ever way it may be in our power to help. If 
one is sick in your home or among your 
neighbors, it is a divine call to you to do the 
gentle offices of love, to minister in self- 
denying ways, to do the work of God beside 
the sick bed. That is why the suffering is per- 
mitted. 

It may be the divine purpose that we our- 
selves shall be benefited by our trouble. No 
human life ever reaches its best possibilities 
without pain and cost. One tells of visiting a 
pottery and seeing a vessel whose pattern was 
blurred and marred, the design not brought 
out clearly. He asked why it was, and was 
told that it had not been burned enough. It 
would have been well worth while for the ves- 
sel to have had hotter fires and to have stayed 
longer in the furnace, in order to have the 
pattern wrought out in greater clearness and 
distinctness. May it not be that many of us 
miss much of the finer possibilities of spirit- 
ual attainment because we are not willing to 
suffer? 

[22] 



€^e 0iy$tzvy of guttering 

" Thou Who didst fashion man on earth to be 
Strong in Thy strength, and with Thy freedom 

free, 
Complete at last Thy great design in me. 

"Cost what it may of sorrow and distress, 
Of empty hands, of utter loneliness, 
I dare not, Lord, be satisfied with less. 

"So, Lord, complete Thy great design in me. 
Give or reclaim Thy gifts, but let me be 
Strong in Thy strength, and with Thy freedom 
freer 

Sometimes we are called to suffer for the sake 
of others, that they may be made better. The 
highest honor God gives to anyone in this 
world is to be a helper of one's fellows. There 
are those whose lives shine as bright lights 
among men. They are usually quiet people, 
not much heard of on the streets. But they 
carry the marks of Jesus on their faces, in 
their characters and dispositions, and they 
are unselfish helpers of others. The weary 
come to them, and the sorrowing, the tired, 
and the hungry-hearted. They seem to be set 
apart by a holy separation as helpers and 

[23] 



comforters of others, as burden-bearers, as 
counsellors and friends of those who need 
such aid. Who does not crave to hold such a 
place of usefulness, of influence, among men? 
But are we willing to pay the price? No life 
can become strong, quiet, helpful, a rock in 
a weary land, a shelter from the storm, a 
shadow from the heat, without the experience 
of suffering. We must learn the lesson of 
beautiful life in the school of self-denial, the 
school of the cross. 

One writes of a poet whose pen was facile, 
who wrote many brilliant lines. The world 
listened and was charmed but not helped, not 
inspired to better things. The poet's child 
died, and then he dipped his pen in his heart's 
blood and wrote, and the world paused and 
listened and was blessed and quickened to more 
beautiful life. Before we can do anything that 
is really worth while in helping our fellow- 
men, we must pass through a training of suf- 
fering, in which alone we can learn the lessons 
that will fit us for this holier service. 
Another mission of suffering is for the honor 

[24] 



Clje jft^tet? of buffeting 

of God. Satan said Job's piety was interested 
piety. " Doth Job fear God for naught? Hast 
Thou not made a hedge about him? . . . 
Thou hast blessed the work of his hands. But 
put forth Thy hand now and touch all that 
he hath and he will renounce Thee to Thy 
face." Job was left in the hands of the Ad- 
versary to disprove this charge. His sufferings 
were not because of sins in himself, but that 
the reality of his religion might be proved. 
When we are called to suffer, it may be as a 
witness for God. We do not know what may 
depend upon our faithfulness in any time of 
stress or trial. It may seem a small thing, 
for instance, to complain and fret when we 
are suffering, and yet it may sadly blur 
our witnessing. God wants us to represent 
Him, to illustrate the qualities in His char- 
acter which He would have the world know. 
A Christian in a sick room is called to mani- 
fest the beauty of His Master in patience, in 
trust, in sweetness of spirit. A Christian in 
great sorrow is called to show the world the 
meaning of faith and faith's power to hold 

[25] 



Wtyn t^e ^>ong ^Begins 

the heart quiet and at peace in the bitterest 
experience of grief and loss. We are wit- 
nesses for God in our sufferings, and, if we 
would not fail Him, we must show in our- 
selves the power of divine grace to keep the 
song singing in our hearts through pain or 
sorrow. 

There never can be any gain in asking 
"Why?" when we find ourselves in trouble. 
God has His reasons, and it is enough that He 
should know why He sends this or that trial 
into our life or our friend's life. There is 
always mystery. The perplexed and heart- 
breaking "Why?" is heard continually, 
wherever we go. We cannot answer it. It is 
not meant that we should try to answer it. 
The "Why?" belongs to our Father. He 
knows ; let Him answer and let us trust and 
be still. The little child's experience is a very 
common one: 

" ' Why did my little sister come unless she meant 
to stay? 
Could anybody love her more than we?' says 
little May. 

[26] 



C^e piy$ttxy of buffering 



U i 



Why did she go f Where did she go f What 
makes her stay away? 
Did anybody need her more than we ? \ asked 
little May. 

" Alas , these tearful questions wake sad memories 

to-day : 
Ui He needs her most Who loves her most/ is all 

that I can say" 

That is all we need say in any of our sor- 
rows : He needs our dear ones most Who loves 
them most. But that is enough for faith. 
God is love. He makes no mistakes. 

"And so I came to thee, Father, dear ; 

My lessons are so hard, my brain so weak, 
Life's problems all unsolved, my way not clear — 
/ am so tired; I cannot think to-night — 
Dear Father, take my life and make the an- 
swer right." 



[27] 



C^e I3lo0$omitt(j of ®uv C^omjs 



[29] 



"God never would send you the darkness 
If He felt you could bear the light; 

But you would not cling to His guiding hand 
If the way were always bright; 

And you would not care to walk by faith , 
Could you always walk by sight. 

"' 'Tis true He has many an anguish 
For your sorrowful heart to bear, 

And many a cruel thorn-crown 
For your tired head to wear; 

He knows how few could reach heaven at all 
If pain did not guide them there." 



[30] 



CHAPTER THIRD 



€^e Blossoming of £te C^omg 




BIT of autobiography tells 
the story of St. Paul's 
thorn in the flesh. What 
this was, we do not know. 
It was given to him, how- 
ever, that he should not 
be exalted overmuch. He had been caught up 
to the third heaven, where he heard unspeak- 
able words. A man who had had such an in- 
comparable privilege was in danger of glory- 
ing in it. Some people cannot stand much 
honor. A little promotion turns their heads. 
And spiritual pride is a withering experience. 
It makes a man forget his own nothingness 
and unworthiness. It cuts him off from God 
and from dependence upon God. It unfits him 
for being of use to men. Anything is a bless- 
ing, whatever it may cost, that keeps a man 
humble. 

We do not know how much of St. Paul's rich, 

[31] 



beautiful life, his deep interest in divine 
things, and his noble work for his Master he 
owed to his thorn. We do not know how much 
we are indebted to the sufferings and sorrows 
of good men and women. The best thoughts, 
the richest lessons, the sweetest songs that 
have come down to us from the past, are the 
fruit of pain, of weakness, of sorrow. We can- 
not forget that human redemption comes to 
us from the cross of the Son of God. The 
fruit of earth's thorns may seem bitter to the 
taste, but it is the wholesome food of human 
souls. The old legend tells how all through 
Passion Week the crown of thorns lay upon the 
altar, but upon Easter morning was found 
changed to fragrant roses, every thorn a 
rose. So earth's sorrow-crowns become gar- 
lands of heavenly roses in the warmth of di- 
vine love. 

There is not one of us who has not his own 
thorn. With one it may be a bodily infirmity 
or weakness. With another it is some disfig- 
urement which cannot be removed. It may be 
some uncongeniality in circumstances, some- 

[32] 



Ctye Blossoming of flDirc C^ontg 

thing which makes it hard to live beautifully. 
One young man finds his place of work unen- 
durable. The men with whom he is associated 
are almost as bad as they can be. He is the 
only Christian among them, and they make it 
very hard for him to retain his integrity and 
to go on faithfully. But it may be that God 
wants him just where he is, that the man needs 
just this uncongeniality in his surroundings 
to bring out the best that is in him. Or it 
may be that Christ needs his witness in just 
that place. The consciousness that he is the 
only one the Master has there, puts upon 
him a grave responsibility. It may not be his 
privilege to leave his place; it may be his 
duty to stay where he is, to endure his thorn, 
whether it be for the purifying of his own 
life or for the witness he may bear for his 
Lord. 

The Master told St. Paul that his thorn was 
necessary to him, to save him from becoming 
proud. We may think of our thorn, too, as 
something we need. In place of allowing it to 
irritate us or to spoil our life, its mission is 

[33] 



Wfym tyz ^>ong begins 

to make us sweet, patient, loving. Many peo- 
ple beseech the Lord to take away their thorn. 
Yet it may be that the prayer is not answered, 
will not be answered, should not be answered. 
It may be that the thorn is necessary to keep 
them low at God's feet. One writes: 

U I knew a youth of large and lofty soul, 
A soul aflame with heavenly purpose high ; 
hike a young eagle's, his clear, earnest eye, 
Fixed on the sun, could choose no lesser goal. 
For truth he lived; and love, a burning coal 
From God's high altar did the fire supply 
That flushed his cheeks as morning tints the 

sky, 
And kept him pure by its divine control. 

" Lately I saw him, smooth and prosperous, 
Of portly presence and distinguished air. 
The cynic's smile of self -content was there, 
The very air about him breathed success. 
Yet by the eyes of love, too plainly seen, 
Appeared the wreck of what he might have 
been." 

That is the story of the life of too many men. 
Prosperity led them to forget God. Even in 

[34] 



C^e Blossoming of £>ut Cljorng 

spiritual things, the enjoyment of great privi- 
leges sometimes makes men proud and draws 
them away from humble dependence upon 
God. We are all in danger of settling down 
into a spirit of ease and self-satisfaction. We 
have been living pretty well, we say. We have 
been rather good, as people go, even as Chris- 
tian people go. We have done many pieces 
of Christian work which people praised. We 
seem to be helpful to others, and God is using 
us to be a blessing to many. This is right. 
It is glorious to be able to live nobly, victori- 
ously, usefully. It is a high honor to be led 
up by the Master to some mountain-top of 
transfiguration and to see heaven opened 
above us, to have God use us to achieve 
great things for Him, to have Christ honor us 
by putting His Spirit in us and enabling us 
to witness for Him faithfully and effectively 
before the world. To have the Divine Spirit 
dwell in us, sweeten our life, transform our 
character, and make us a blessing to many 
— this is the highest honor that even heaven 
can confer on anyone in this present world. 

[35] 



But the peril comes when we ourselves become 
conscious of the goodness of our own lives, 
of the brightness of our faces, or of the sweet- 
ness of the work we are doing for our Master. 
Moses had been forty days with God on the 
Mount, and when he came down to the people 
they saw his face shining. The people saw it, 
but he did not. " Moses wist not that his face 
shone." That was the secret of his greatness — 
his humility, his unconsciousness of his own 
radiancy of face. If he had been aware of 
the glory which others saw, the glory would 
have faded. 

There is no sin of which active, earnest, god- 
ly, and useful Christian people are so much in 
danger as this of spiritual pride. If it gets 
possession of our hearts it will blight every- 
thing beautiful in us. When a good man 
comes to know that he is good, his soul is in 
peril. When a useful man becomes aware of 
his great usefulness, he has passed the zenith 
of his worth. When a devout man, a man of 
prayer, knows that he is devout, that he has 
special power in prayer, a large part of his 

[36] 



C^e TBlo&ioming of £Dur Cljotng 

power is gone. The strength of godliness lies 
in the absence of self -consciousness. 
As we think of this, it is easy to understand 
St. Paul's danger after his remarkable spirit- 
ual exaltation. It is no wonder a thorn had to 
be given him, a torturing trouble to balance 
his spiritual elevation, to act as ballast to 
hold him close to earth. Let us not be sur- 
prised if to us likewise, after we have been 
greatly blessed, there is given something to 
keep us humble and lowly. It is well that God 
loves us too much to see us become inflated 
with spiritual self-conceit and not interfere 
to save us. Let us not chafe, when, after being 
greatly blessed in some way, a hindrance 
comes, a disappointment, a trial, a thorn, to 
break our comfort and spoil our ease. Let 
us accept it quietly, reverently — it is God 
saving us. 

St. Paul tells us here also that he rejoiced in 
his thorn. He did not at first. He cried to 
heaven to have it removed. But when his 
Master told him that he must keep it, that he 
needed it, that it Kad in it a blessing for him, 

[37] 



he chafed no longer. Indeed, he made friends 
with it quickly, accepted it, and stopped com- 
plaining about it. That is the only right and 
sensible thing to do with any disagreeable, un- 
congenial, or painful thing we find we can- 
not have removed. It is God's will that it shall 
be in our life for some good reason which He 
knows. We should get the victory over it by 
taking it to our heart, by receiving it as com- 
ing from Christ. No matter how it hurts us, 
if we accept it in this way it will leave bene- 
diction in our life. God sends some of our 
best blessings to us in our thorns, and it will 
be a sad thing if we thrust them away and 
miss them. 

The pitiful weakness which St. Paul thrice 
besought the Lord to remove in order that 
he might continue his usefulness, Christ took, 
filled with His own strength and inspired with 
His own life until it blazed with transfigured 
beauty and became a resistless force in build- 
ing up the kingdom of heaven in this world. 
Whatever our weakness may be, we need only 
to give it to Christ. He does not want our 

[38] 



C^e TSlo&soming of flDur C^omg 

strength — He cannot do anything with it. 
Some people are so good that Christ cannot 
use them. They are so wise that He has no 
place for them in His service. They know so 
much that He cannot teach them anything. 
They are so holy that He cannot make them 
any better. Let us beware of self-righteous- 
ness, the emptiest and most hopeless of all 
conditions. If we consider ourselves strong, 
good, wise, holy, and skilful in doing work, 
Christ does not want us. At least He does not 
want us in that mood. The first thing is to 
get emptied of all our own wisdom, strength, 
and ability for service, and then He can take 
us and do something with us. The truth is put 
well in these lines : 

" // thou couldst empty all thyself of self, 

Like to a shell dishabited; 
-There might He find thee on the ocean shelf. 
And say, l This is not dead/ 
And fill thee with Himself instead. 

" But thou art all replete with very thou, 
And hast such shrewd activity, 
That when He comes, He says, l This is enow 

[39] 



Unto itself; ''twere better let it be; 
It is so small and full, there is no room for 
Me.'" 

There are many who are so full of themselves 
that they have no room for Christ. If only 
they would become empty, empty of self, He 
would fill them with Himself, and then they 
would have untold power for good in the 
world. We want to be used by the Master, to 
have our faces shine with His indwelling love 
and to become blessings among men. Are we 
willing to pay the price? Are we willing 
to accept the thorn when it is given to us, 
and to endure it, that we may be kept humble, 
so that the Master can use us ? We may safely 
trust Him with the enriching of our lives. He 
knows when pain is needful, when loss is the 
only way to gain, when suffering is necessary 
to hold us at His feet. He gives trouble in 
order to bless us in some way; and we shall 
always be losers when we chafe or reject our 
thorn. 



[40] 



Pion Wtytt tyan I3lac& 



[41] 



* ' Oh, many are the things that are out in the years : 
There are visions of joy, bright hopes and dark fears, 
There are prophecies made which the future must hold 
To swift, sure fulfilment, in measure untold. 
There are gleamings of smiles and cloud mists of tears, 
There are beautiful things far out in the years. 

" There are beautiful things far out in the years, 
There is light which the gloom of the present endears. 
There are thoughts which the future to good deeds may 

change, 
There is happiness there so blissful and strange. 
Though the present for us hold but trials and tears, 
There are beautiful things far out in the years. ,y 



[42] 



CHAPTER FOURTH 



jttore gtyite t^an I3lac6 




LITTLE story-poem tells 
of a shepherd-boy lead- 
ing his sheep through a 
valley, when a stranger, 
meeting him, looked over 
his flock and said, " I see 
you have more white sheep than black." 
" Yes," answered the boy, " it is always so." 
It is always so with sheep. In every flock there 
are many more white ones than black. Then 
we may take a wider view, and we shall find 
that everywhere in life there is more white 
than black. 

It is so in nature. There are some desert 
spots on the earth, but, on the other hand, 
we may think of the broad fertile fields which 
spread out everywhere. Much, too, of what 
we call desert is really rich in its possibilities 
of fertility and culture, needing only the 
bringing to it of the water from the moun- 

[43] 



tains overshadowing it to change it into 
garden beauty. Then even irreclaimable des- 
erts have their compensations. They are not 
altogether useless. Sahara seems a blot on the 
face of the earth, but it makes Southern Eu- 
rope what it is, with its semi-tropical climate 
and productions, while but for the desert it 
would be, in its long winters and its cold, like 
other countries at the same parallels. There 
is more white than black in nature. 
It is so in the matter of human conditions. 
There are some afflicted people in every com- 
munity. There are those who seem unfortu- 
nate in their circumstances. There are homes 
with sorrow in them, with empty chairs and 
vacant places, and with memorials of sore 
losses. There are sad hearts and lonely people 
in every community. But the number of sor- 
rowing and grieving ones is far exceeded by 
the great multitude of those who are happy. 
There are more songs than wails. There is 
more laughter than weeping — more white 
than black. 

There always are many sick, crippled, blind, 

[44] 



imot* Wte tfjan I31acfi 

and suffering ones in any neighborhood. 
There are hospitals, always filled. Physicians 
are kept busy going their rounds. But the 
proportion of the sick and suffering to the 
well and strong is very small. For one home 
with its illness, there are many with bound- 
ing health. The great majority of people are 
well, active, and strong. 
There are some cloudy or rainy days, but 
there are far more days of sunshine and blue 
skies. An ancient sun-dial bore this legend, 
" I register only the bright days." But there 
are people who take no note of any but dark 
days. They keep a weather record, but enter 
in it only the disagreeable features, the ex- 
cessive heat or the excessive cold, the rain, the 
snow, the thunder-storm, the abnormal hu- 
midity, the drought. Every year must have 
its unpleasant days, but for every one of 
these it brings us many days of comfort and 
delight. 

In every individual life, too, there is more 
white than black. Some people are unwilling 
to confess that it is so with them. They seem 

[45] 



Wtyzn tyt ^>ong 'Begins 

unhappy if they have nothing to speak of 
that makes appeal for sympathy. They are 
never heard saying in genuine gladness that 
they are perfectly well. They must always tell 
you of some ailment, some suffering, some 
drawback. They are pessimistic concerning 
their own lives. They magnify their troubles. 
They think that the evil days are more in 
number than the good, that there is more 
cloud than blue sky in their lives, that they 
have more sorrow than joy. But this is never 
true. The list of mercies in any life, if footed 
up through the years, would make a measure- 
less total, while the sad and painful things 
would make an almost inappreciable list. 
One tells of keeping a two-column account — 
on one side all the trials, losses, disappoint- 
ments, sufferings; on the other, all the joys, 
benefits, favors, pleasures, mercies, kind- 
nesses; and the bright column grew until 
there was no room to set down the items, 
while in the dark column there were but a few 
painful things noted. It is always so. There 
is more white than black. 

[46] 



Even our few dark days have their mission 
and bring their blessing. All sunshine would 
be the bane of the fields. If no clouds ever 
gathered, if it never rained, what would be- 
come of the trees, the grasses, the growing 
grain? Nature is glad of rain. If there were 
no cloudy days in our experience, if no show- 
ers ever fell, our lives would not reach their 
best. The dark days come to us on friendly 
errands. 

We must not think we are losing time when 
we are called apart from activity to rest shut 
up in a sick-room. Work is not the only way 
of pleasing God. Activity is not the only duty 
of our lives in this world. We have lessons to 
learn, as well as things to do. Some day we 
shall learn that many of our best days have 
been the days we thought we were losing 
ground — idle, wasted days. But the day that 
has shadow or pain or sorrow in it may have 
more of heaven in it than any day that is 
cloudless, full of joy and pleasure. 

" There was never a day so misty and gray 
That the blue was not somewhere above it; 

[47] 



Wfym ti&e £>ong 'Begins 

There is never a mountain-top ever so bleak 
That some little flower does not love it. 

" There was never a night so dreary and dark 
That the stars were not somewhere shining; 
There is never a cloud so heavy and black 
That it has not a silver lining. 

"Into every life some shadows will fall, 
But heaven sends the sunshine of love; 
Through the rifts in the clouds we may, if we 
mil, 
See the beautiful blue above." 

Some of us train ourselves to see only certain 
things to the exclusion of other things. Thus 
we each make our own world, and two per- 
sons looking out from the same window see al- 
together different worlds. One looks through 
his little pane of glass and sees only mud, and 
another looks out and sees blue sky and shin- 
ing stars. The trouble with too many people 
is that one little spot of darkness bulks so in 
their vision that it hides a whole heavenful of 
light and a whole earthful of beauty. One sor- 
row blots out the memory of a thousand joys. 
One disappointment makes them forget years 

[48] 



of fulfilled hopes. Many people have a 
strangely perverted faculty of exaggerating 
their mole-hills of trouble into mountains, and 
then of looking at their blessings through 
diminishing lenses. A cheerful heart always 
finds brightness, while an unhappy spirit sees 
nothing but discouragement in even the most 
favorable conditions. One person is happy in 
the narrowest circumstances, while another is 
wretched in a luxuriant home with every want 
supplied. 

Some people never see anything to be thank- 
ful for. They may attend a service of praise 
on Thanksgiving Day, but they are not in a 
joyful mood, and not the first strain of 
thanksgiving rises from their hearts. They 
never stop complaining long enough to allow 
a grateful thought to nest in their hearts. 
They keep themselves always in such a mood 
of discontent that no note of praise is ever 
heard from their lips. One would think, to 
hear them talk about their trials, that God 
does not love them and that no favor ever 
comes into their lives. Yet, really, they do not 

[49] 



have any more than their share of human 
suffering, while they certainly have a full 
portion of blessing and good. 
But this is not the way for a Christian to 
live. We dishonor God when we indulge in un- 
happiness and refuse to be grateful. We spoil 
our own lives and make existence wretched for 
ourselves when we insist on seeing only the 
black. Then we make it harder for others to 
live, casting the burden of our gloom upon 
them. We should train ourselves just as care- 
fully and conscientiously to be thankful and 
songful as we do to be truthful, honest, kind, 
or thoughtful. 

Some people try to excuse their unhappiness 
by saying that they were made that way and 
cannot change their disposition. They were 
not born with a sunny temperament, as some 
of their friends were. They are naturally pre- 
disposed to gloom and depression. But, even 
if this be true, it does not doom them forever 
to gloom and depression. The best Christian 
gladness is conquered sadness. Christ is able 
to make us over again, giving us new hearts, 

[50] 



and the new hearts He makes are all songful 
hearts, full of rejoicing and gladness. 
We all have our special days, when we go up 
to the hill-top, out of our low valleys, and get 
a wider vision. It is well to have such a day 
even occasionally, but it would be better if 
we should live on the hills all the while. Some 
people stay always down amid the mists and 
never get to see a mountain-top. They never 
behold the sun. They never breathe the at- 
mosphere of heaven. A little dog, one chill 
autumn day, was seen to get up from where 
he was lying in a dark corner of a room, and 
go and lie down in a patch of sunshine 
which he saw on the floor. The dog teaches us 
a good lesson. There are always bright spots 
in even the darkest experience, and we should 
find them and live much in them. 
" Is it always foggy here ? " asked a pas- 
senger of the captain of a steamer off the 
banks of Newfoundland, as the vessel ran 
through the great clouds of mist. " How 
should I know, madam? I don't live here." 
Yet there are too many Christians who seem 

[51] 



^en tyt ^>ong 'Begins 

to live always in the fog-banks of fear and 
unbelief. Then they wonder why they do not 
have the joy of the Lord. But the joy of the 
Lord never is found in such climates. We 
must dwell in the uplands of God if we would 
know the secret of God's gladness. 



[52] 



C^e jttagtet ana t^e doubter 



[53] 



"I will not doubt, though all my ships at sea 

Come drifting home, with broken masts and sails ; 
I will believe the Hand which never fails, 
From seeming evil worketh good to me ; 

And though I weep because those sails are tattered , 
Still will I cry, while my best hopes are shattered, 
'I trust in thee.' 

"I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain, 
And troubles swarm like bees about to hive; 
I will believe the heights for which I strive 
Are only reached through anguish and through pain ; 
And though I groan and writhe beneath my crosses, 
I yet shall see through my severest losses 
The greatest gain." 



[54] 



CHAPTER FIFTH 



C^e jttaster and t^e doubter 




O other loss possible to a 
human life is so deep, so 
poignant, so desolating, 
as the losing of the sight 
of God's face in the dark- 
ness, the fading out of be- 
lief in the unseen world, in the divine Father- 
hood, in the eternal goodness, in the immortal 
life. One of the strangest experiences in the 
story of John the Baptist was his doubt of 
the Messiahship of Jesus. There are many 
good men who in certain experiences have like 
questionings. Again and again, after great 
sorrow, Christian people are found doubting. 
In some cases the doubt takes this form: 
" Surely God is not the God of love I have 
been taught that He is, or He would not have 
darkened my life as He is doing." In other 
cases the feeling voices itself thus : " God 
must be punishing me for sins I have com- 

[55] 



mitted; or He is displeased with me for my 
failures and neglects in duty." Or, the per- 
son feels that God Himself has failed in His 
promises. " I have cried to Him, but He is 
silent to me. He does not regard my distress. 
He has no pity upon me. He has altogether 
forgotten me " 

We are taught that the note of joy never 
should cease to be heard in the Christian's 
life, that we should praise God at all times, 
that we should rejoice evermore. That is, in- 
deed, the way our Master would have us live. 
He has overcome the world and would have us 
share His victory. Yet there are times in the 
lives of many saintly believers when from 
some cause or other the Father's face is hid 
for a season. We do not forget that even 
Jesus Himself, in the terrible darkness of 
His cross, lost, for some moments at least, His 
consciousness of the divine presence, and cried, 
" My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken 
Me? " One writer says he wishes the evangelist 
had forgotten to put down this cry of Jesus 
on His cross. But we may be glad that he did 

[56] 



C^e jftagtes ana tije 3®oubttv 

not forget it, for if ever we have such an ex- 
perience we know now that it is not a mark 
of desertion, since even Jesus once felt the 
same. 

" He said j 'Forsaken.' Then doubt is not sin. 
'Tis but to stand in the night, and within 
Feel, for a while, as if day could not win" 

John did just the right thing with his doubt. 
He did not nurse it in his breast, and brood 
over it in his dungeon. If he had, his faith 
would have died out and the bitterness of dis- 
appointment would have overwhelmed him. 
That is the mistake some people make with 
their doubts and questionings. They cherish 
them, and the doubts grow into black clouds 
that quench every star. What John did was 
to take his question at once to the Master. 
He did not want to doubt; he wanted ex- 
planation, that he might continue to believe. 
The only true thing for one who has doubts 
is to go right to Christ Himself with them. 
Faith is not lost — only there are things which 
cannot be understood. These the Master will 
make plain. 

[57] 



It is profitable to learn how Jesus dealt with 
His friend's doubt. He did not work a miracle 
and bring him out of his dungeon. When we 
are distressed by the ways of God with us 
and begin to think that He is not dealing 
with us in love, and then cry to Him, " Art 
Thou, indeed, our Friend, our Redeemer? Is 
this love, this strange way by which Thou art 
taking us ? " He may not change His treat- 
ment of us; the pain may become no less 
poignant, the sorrow no less bitter. This may 
not be His way of blessing us. 

" Not what God gives, but what He takes, 
Uplifts us to the holiest height ; 
On truth's rough crag life's current breaks 
To diamond light" 

John was suffering in prison for faithfulness 
to his Master and to truth. We would say that 
Jesus would have sent him a message of sym- 
pathy in his suffering. There is great power 
in even a word of encouragement when one is 
carrying a heavy load, or passing through a 
fierce struggle, or when one is in danger of 
fainting and giving up. It would have seemed 

[58] 



C$e faster attB t^e doubter 

like our Master if He had spoken to John's 
messengers some approving words about their 
master, which they might have reported to 
him when they went back to Machaerus. 
After they had gone, Jesus did speak to His 
own disciples and the people such words. He 
said that they must not think of John as a 
reed shaken by the wind, as a man whom soft- 
ness and luxury had spoiled. Of all men that 
had been born, there was none greater than 
John. Would it not have made John in his 
prison braver and stronger to endure his con- 
finement if his disciples had returned, say- 
ing, " Jesus spoke most approvingly of 
you and of your work. He said this and 
this and this about you " ? But there was 
not a word of such praise, not a word 
expressing sympathy with the caged lion 
in his chains within his bars. Jesus knew 
best how to deal with His friend. Perhaps 
a gentle message would have unmanned the 
noble hero. Perhaps commendation would have 
made him less able to endure the solitude of 
his dungeon. Our Lord wants to make us brave 

[59] 



and strong. He does not pamper us. Some peo- 
ple live on compliments and flatteries. They 
have become so used to being praised for 
everything they do, that if praise is not given 
them they fret and repine. They are like chil- 
dren who have been rewarded so often for be- 
ing good, for getting their lessons, for doing 
home tasks, and for keeping sweet, that if the 
reward is not given they sulk and do nothing 
they should do. Reward is sweet, but to work 
only for commendation is one of the lowest 
forms of selfishness. 

There are some people who want always to be 
sympathized with, and who are hurt when a 
friend fails to say at every complaint they 
utter, " I am very sorry for you." No mood 
of life is more unwholesome than this craving. 
It indicates pitiable weakness, selfishness of a 
most unmanly kind. We do others great harm 
when we humor such demands in them. We 
should seek to make our friends more self- 
reliant, instead of indulging their infirmities 
and fears. There is a time for sympathy, 
but sympathy must never be enervating. If 

[60] 



C^e jttagter and t^e doubter 

one comes to you in your sorrow, he must leave 
you more able to endure your sorrow, not with 
self-pity in your heart. The effect of too 
much that is called comforting is to make 
the grief seem greater and the heart less able 
to bear its load. But not thus did Jesus com- 
fort John. The effect of the message He sent 
was to quiet and reassure him, to give him 
new confidence, and then enable him to con- 
tinue in his prison courageously and victori- 
ously to the end. Jesus wanted John to be- 
lieve in Him without any concession to John's 
wishes, without a word of praise or sym- 
pathy. He did not make it a whit easier for 
John to believe. He treated him as a hero, 
and a hero John proved. 
Jesus answered John's question by continuing 
in His work of mercy. The people were 
thronging about Him as they always were, 
bringing their sick, their blind, their lame, 
their lepers; and all who were brought to 
Him He healed. Then after the messengers 
had been watching the gracious work for a 
time, Jesus said to them, " Go and tell John 

[61] 



the things which ye hear and see: the blind 
receive their sight and the lame walk, the 
lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the 
dead are raised up, and the poor have good 
tidings preached to them." This was the an- 
swer to John's question, " Art Thou the 
Messiah? " 

When to-day the questions are asked, " What 
are the real evidences of Christianity? What 
are the highest proofs that Jesus Christ was 
the Son of God? " the answer may be made 
in the very words which the Master spoke 
to John's messengers. The strongest proof 
that Christianity is divine is in what it has 
done and is doing for the world. Does any- 
one doubt that Jesus was God's Messiah? 
Show him what the name of Jesus has 
wrought. Every sweet home in Christian lands 
is an evidence of Christianity. Every hospital, 
every asylum, every institution of charity, 
every orphanage, every school for feeble- 
minded children, every home for the blind, 
is an evidence that He who came was indeed 
God's Anointed One. 

[62] 



C^e jftagter and t^e doubter 

There are three things about doubting of 
which we may be sure. One is, that our Master 
is very patient with us when we find it hard 
to believe. It is not always so with our human 
friends. Some of them are impatient with 
any question implying uncertainty of belief. 
There are good men who resent even the most 
honest doubt in others as if it were a grievous 
sin. But Jesus will never treat our difficulties 
in believing in this way. We may tell Him 
just what it is we cannot understand and 
why we cannot quite believe, and He will listen 
to us patiently, explain the hard things and 
teach us faith. We may never be afraid to 
bring to Him kny doubt or question that per- 
plexes us. 

Another thing to remember is that while Jesus 
is very patient with honest doubt, and deals 
with us gently, yet we rob ourselves of un- 
told joy and blessing when we give way to 
questionings. Doubts are clouds in the sky 
which hide the blue and shut out the stars. 
Faith is infinitely better than doubt. It shows 
us the glory of heaven; it greatly enriches 

[63] 



Wtyn ti&e ^ong Begins 

all human blessings ; it makes life a song and 
a triumph. 

This, too, we should not forget, that doubt 
never is necessary. It was not necessary in 
John's case. Nothing was going wrong with 
the Messiahship of Jesus. Nothing was really 
going wrong with John's own circumstances. 
They were very hard, it is true, but John was 
fulfilling his mission. If he could have seen 
all things as they appeared from God's 
throne, his doubt would have become joyous 
faith. There are painful things in every life, 
some time, somewhere. We see only one side 
of the experience ; or we read the serial story 
only part way through, not waiting for the 
final chapters, and at some dark point we be- 
gin to doubt God's goodness and love. We 
need only to wait a little longer, and we shall 
see the beauty. Here is where faith wins its 
victory. Faith has such confidence in the 
power, the wisdom, and the love of God, that 
no matter how things seem, it trusts and 
sings. We should seek to lose all our doubts in 
the joy of believing. 

[64] 



ft 



at tt ^ell 



» 



[65] 



We go 

Nearer f nearer to the setting sun, and know 
But this, whatever is, is best — 
Sweetest of words confessed 
By love's warm breath 
In life or death. 

We go 
Led by His shielding hand and know 
He will not make, 
Except for love's sweet sake, 

A single day 
Shadowed along life's bitter way. 
When it is night 
We rest in this — He leadeth toward the light 

— George Klingle. 



[66] 



CHAPTER SIXTH 



<( 



%ti$Wt\V 




HERE is no experience in 
life in which it is not pos- 
sible for a Christian to 
say, " It is well." One 
ground for this confi- 
dence is that this is God's 
world. Nothing ever gets beyond the sweep of 
His power. What is true of material things 
is true also of events, of affairs, even of men's 
cruelty and hate. God rules in all. Pilate said 
to Jesus that he had power to crucify Him 
and power to release Him. Jesus replied, 
" Thou wouldest have no power against Me, 
except it were given thee from above." God 
could have rescued His Son from Pilate's hand 
that day if He. had chosen to do so. That He 
did not do it was no evidence that He did not 
love Him. God could free us from all that 
would pain us, if He would. The trouble that 
breaks into your life is not an accidental oc- 

[67] 



Wfym t^e ^>ong I3eging 

currence, something that has escaped from 
the divine control, something from which God 
could not have delivered you. There is no law- 
lessness in this universe where God is sov- 
ereign. Whatever is done, He is the doer of 
it, or He permits it. 

A further ground of confidence is that this 
God, in Whose hands are all things, is our 
Father. If He were a cruel God, if He did not 
love His creatures, we would have no assurance 
that we shall be kept from harm amid all the 
strange experiences of human life. But, being 
our Father, we know that the least and the 
lowliest of us are always thought about and 
have a special place in God's plan and pur- 
pose. 

Not only does God love us and wish our good, 
but His wisdom is infinite. He knows what is 
best for us, what kind of experience will do 
us the good we need. We ourselves do not 
know. The things we think would bring us 
blessing, perhaps would bring us irreparable 
harm. The things we dread as evil, and shrink 
from, perhaps are the bearers to us of divin- 

[68] 



"%t (0 Wtll" 



est good. We would make pitiful work of our 
lives if we had the ordering of our affairs and 
experiences in our own hands. If for but one 
day we could take matters into our own hands, 
out of God's hands, we would wreck every- 
thing. 

It seemed cruel in God to let the sons of Jacob 
sell the boy Joseph away into a foreign land 
as a slave. Could not He have interfered and 
prevented the crime? Certainly. Did He not 
hear the lad's cries? Yes, He heard — and did 
nothing, but let him be carried off. How can 
we reconcile such permission of wrong against 
a helpless boy with the creed of Christendom 
that " God is love "? Indeed, it was just be- 
cause He loved the boy that He let him be car- 
ried away. We have only to read on to the end 
of the story to learn this. We see at length in 
the outcome the most beautiful divine good- 
ness and wisdom. We see the love working in 
this one story of Providence that is written 
out for us. It may not be written out so plain- 
ly in the experiences of our own and our 
friends' lives, but this really is the story of 

[69] 



all the strange things of life. God is willing to 
let us suffer to-day, that we may get some 
great, rich good, or do some noble service for 
the world, to-morrow. 

With these truths about God and His dealings 
with us fixed in our minds, it is easy for us 
to believe that whatever our experience may 
be, it is well with us. We may not see the good 
with our own eyes, but God sees it, and that 
is enough. Even when we have brought the 
trouble upon ourselves by our disobedience of 
the divine laws, we may so relate ourselves to 
our sin as to be able to say, " It is well." There 
is in the mercy of God and in the redemption 
of Jesus Christ a wondrous power that can 
even take the bitterness out of sin and rob it 
of its curse. We may never do evil that good 
may come — that would be to mock God and 
act presumptuously. But when we have sinned 
we may take our sin to God and ask Him to 
forgive it, and then to arrest its poison in our 
life and change it to good. 
We should understand well how to deal with 
our sins, when in weakness or temptation we 

[70] 



« at i$ wax " 



have done evil. If we keep them, hide them, 
and then go on, leaving them behind us, they 
will be our eternal undoing. Or if we try in 
any way of our own to set right that which 
our sin has made wrong, we shall find that the 
blight and curse remain. No such dealing 
with our sin can bring good out of it. But 
if we bring it to Christ, our Redeemer, and 
put it altogether into His hands — that is 
what it is to confess our sin and repent of it 
— He will take it and forgive it, and bring 
out of it benefit and good. That is the way the 
Master does with every sin that is truly con- 
fessed and given to Him. Not only is it then 
forgiven, but its repetition is made impossible, 
for the evil within which caused the sinful act 
is changed to good, and where the ugly thorn- 
root grew with such baleful fruit, will spring 
up now a lovely flower instead. That is what 
redemption means. That is the way Christ 
saves us from our sins — not from their pen- 
alty, merely, which really would not be a sav- 
ing at all, but from the very sin-roots them- 
selves. 

[71] 



So there is a blessed sense in which we may 
say, even after sinning, " It is well." We 
may never say it of the sin, or of our own 
hearts while cherishing the sin; but we may 
say it when the scarlet has become white as 
snow, when the crimson red has become as 
wool. David's sin was black and terrible, but 
the blessing of forgiveness wrought in David 
thereafter the noblest things of all his life. 
Peter's sin against his Master was pitiful in 
its shame, but Peter came a new man out of 
that night. The memory of his fall, instead of 
working sorrow and despair in him, wrought 
intenser earnestness in his Master's service. 

" Noble souls 7 through dust and heat, 
Rise from disaster and defeat 

The stronger; 
And y conscious still of the divine 
Within them, lie on earth supine 

No longer." 

Some time or other everyone must experience 
bereavement. Evermore the circles of love are 
being broken. How can we say when a loved 
one is taken away, " It is well "? How can it 

[72] 



ft 



3|t fe WzW 



be well when we have lost out of our life all 
the wealth of a gentle and holy affection? 
But there is a beatitude even for mourning — 
they are blessed who mourn. The reason given 
is that they shall be comforted. This does not 
mean that the lost one shall be restored, but 
that God will put such peace, such strength, 
so much of His own love, into the bereft heart 
that the sorrow will be changed into joy. The 
story of many a bereavement is a story of re- 
stored joy. Those who were taken out of our 
sight are not really taken from us — they stay 
with us in memory, in love, whose clasp death 
cannot break, and in the benediction of their 
sweet lives, which abides unto the end. Those 
who never have mourned have missed the deep- 
est blessing of the divine love. 

" Two flowers within the garden of my days 
- Were set by God. Beneath the summer noon 
One drooped and died, fading away too soon, 
Ere it reached seed-time and fulfilled its praise. 
The other yet within my garden stays. 
Wafting sweet fragrance to the quiet moon, 
Cheering my soul, that once was faint to swoon, 
With the calm peace of its sustaining gaze. 

[73] 



Of these two flowers I have made a song — 
The one that drooped in memory still abides ; 
The one that blooms I wear upon my heart; 
And I have learned, from having lived so long, 
That God intends the most when most he chides, 
And waits to comfort till the tear-drops start." 

It seems to us that suffering and loss must 
always be evil, that they never can bring 
good. We cannot see how it can be good for 
us to lose property, to be sick, to endure pain. 
But it is a law of life that the higher can 
be reached only through the sacrifice of the 
lower. There are those who can be saved for 
spiritual things only through the losing of 
all that seems desirable in the earthly life. 
A distinguished musician ordered a violin 
from a maker of violins — the best he could 
make. At length he came for his instrument. 
He began to draw the bow across the strings, 
and his face clouded. He was disappointed. 
He broke the violin to pieces on the table, 
paid the price, and went away angry. The 
maker gathered up the fragments of the 
shattered instrument and carefully put them 

[74] 



(( 



St te mil" 



together. Again the musician came, and tak- 
ing his bow, drew it over the strings, and now 
the tone was perfect. He was pleased. " What 
is the price? " he asked. " Nothing," the 
maker replied. " This is the violin you broke 
to pieces on my table. I put the fragments 
together and this is the instrument on which 
you now make such noble music. " 
God can take the broken fragments of a life, 
shattered by sorrow or by sin, and out of 
them make a new life whose music shall thrill 
many hearts. If one is discouraged, if the life 
seems to be hopelessly broken, the gospel of 
divine love brings encouragement. There are 
no ruins of life out of which God cannot build 
beauty and blessing. 

This is our Father's world. He loves us and 
is watching over our lives. This is the world 
in which Christ died to save us. Only our own 
hands can defeat the blessed purpose of God's 
love. Only our unbelief can turn the divine 
good into evil for us. We need never be de- 
feated, we need never fail. Whatever our sor- 
row, our discouragement, our hurt, our fail- 

[75] 



ure, there is no day when we may not look 
into the face of Christ and say, " It is well." 
This is the meaning of the love of God to us. 
This is the full and final blessing of Christ's 
redemption — victory over all hurt, over all 
sorrow, over all pain. We need only to cleave 
to Christ in every time of fear or danger, and 
He will bring us through to glory. 

" Living 
Is but the bearing, the enduring. 
The clashing of the hammer; the cutting. 

The straining of the strings, 
The growth of harmony's pure wings. 
Life is the tuning-time, complete 
Alone when every chord is sweet 
Through sacrifice. No untried string 
Can music bring : 
No untried life 
Has triumphed, having passed the strife. 
True living 
Is learning all about the giving." 



[76] 



€^e 3J0? of t^e CWg 



[77] 



That evening , when the Carpenter swept out 
The fragrant shavings from the workshop floor, 

And placed the tools in order, and shut to 
And barred for the last time the humble door, 

And, going on His way to save the world, 
Turned from the laborer's lot forever more, 
I wonder — was He glad f 

' That morning, when the Carpenter walked forth 
From Joseph's doorway, in the glimmering light, 

And bade His holy mother long farewell, 

And, through the rose-shot skies with dawning bright, 

Saw glooming the dark shadows of the cross, 

Yet, seeing, set His feet toward Calvary's height, 
I wonder — was He sad f 

( Ah, when the Carpenter went on His way, 

He thought not for Himself of good or ill ; 
One was His path, through shop or thronging men 
Craving His help, e'en to the cross-crowned hill, 
In toiling, healing, teaching, suffering, all 
His joy, His life, to do the Father's will ; 
And earth and heaven are glad' 1 

— S. Alice Raulett. 



[78] 



CHAPTER SEVENTH 



C^e gjot of tije €vo$$ 




E are not accustomed to 
associate joy with the 
experiences of the cross. 
Every item in the story 
of the terrible hours when 
Jesus was in the hands of 
His enemies, tells of suffering. Yet there is no 
doubt that there was joy in the Redeemer's 
heart in the midst of all His anguish. One 
New Testament writer tells us that for the 
joy that was set before Him He endured the 
cross, despising shame. In one sense, Christ's 
enduring of the cross includes His whole life. 
It seems certain, at least, that from the be- 
ginning of His public ministry He was aware 
of the manner of His death. When in His 
village home in Nazareth He heard the call 
to go out to begin His Messianic work, He 
knew to what He was going. 
It is easy to find hints of joy in the story as 

[79] 



Wtym t^e ^>ottg Begins 

He moved toward the cross. It may seem 
strange to look at the seven words on the 
cross to find hints of joy, and yet more than 
one of these has its note of gladness. The 
saddest of them all was that uttered in the 
darkness, " My God, my God, why hast thou 
forsaken me? " It was a mysterious cry. In 
the bitterness of His sufferings His Father's 
face was obscured for a time. Yet in the 
words " My God " we have a suggestion of 
joy. Though He could not see His Father's 
face, His faith did not fail. God was His and 
He was God's, and in His direst sorrow He 
spoke this word of confidence. 
Another of the seven words was, " It is fin- 
ished." This certainly has in it a note of joy. 
It was not a cry of despair, but a shout of 
victory. A work had been given Him to do, 
and now it was finished. The word told of the 
gladness which filled His heart as He came to 
the end. Great was His relief that His sorrow 
was now over. Great was His gladness that 
He had not failed in doing what had been 
given Him to do. He knew that His life was 

[80] 



C^e 9io? of t^e €vo$$ 

not a failure, that He was not dying too 
soon, that an everlasting kingdom would be 
established through His sacrifice and death, 
that His influence would fill the world, that 
His very cross would draw all men unto 
Him. 

It was the joy set before Him that enabled 
Him to pass through the experiences of death 
in triumph. Just beyond the cross He saw 
glory for Himself. St. John puts it thus in 
one of his great words referring to the death 
of Christ : " Jesus knowing that His hour was 
come that He should depart out of this world 
unto the Father." He does not say, " Know- 
ing that His hour was come when He should 
go to His cross," but, " when He should de- 
part unto the Father." His eye and heart did 
not rest on the way of His going, close before 
Him, but upon His destination. He was going 
back to His Father. He was going to His cor- 
onation as King of glory. 
This was one of the secrets of the joy which 
sustained Christ in those hours. Another was 
in the knowledge that countless lives would 

[81] 



Wfym t^e ^>ong ^Begins 

be saved through His sufferings and death. 
One of Dore's pictures represents Jesus on. 
His cross. Stretching away into the dim dis- 
tance is seen a vast multitude of people of all 
ranks — kings, nobles, peasants, men, women, 
children, a company which no man could num- 
ber. On every face falls a light from the 
cross. There is no doubt that some such vision 
as this was before the eyes of Jesus Himself 
when He hung on the cross. He saw before 
Him all the blessed and glorious results of 
His great sacrifice. He knew that multitudes 
in all ages — ages past and ages to come — 
should reach the blessed life because of His 
offering of Himself on the cross. This was one 
element of the joy set before Him which en- 
abled Him to endure the cross with triumph 
in His heart. 

Jesus is not only our Saviour, but also our 
example. He would have us endure our cross 
as He endured His. The great central mean- 
ing of the cross is suffering for others. No 
one ever can lay down his life for others in 
the same wonderful way that Jesus did. Yet 

[82] 



C^e 3Jo? of t^e €vo$$ 

everyone who follows Him must lay down his 
life vicariously, in his own measure. The death 
on the cross was the token of Christ's vicari- 
ous suffering. He lived and bore the cross 
for others every day that He lived. He loved 
perfectly, and love always gives itself. Love 
in us must be the same that it was in Christ. 
He exhorts His followers to love one another, 
even as He loved His disciples. St. John says 
that "because He laid down His life for us, 
we ought to lay down our lives for the breth- 
ren." We shall not likely have to do this lit- 
erally. Now and then one falls at his post in 
doing the duty of love for another. Some- 
times physicians and nurses give their lives 
for their patients. Ofttimes a mother gives her 
life for her child. But there are many ways of 
laying down one's life for others besides dying 
for them. Usually our duty is to live for 
others — not to die for them. This means to 
forget ourselves utterly, never to hold our- 
selves back from any service or sacrifice to 
which love calls us. 

A beautiful story is told about the Agassiz 

[83] 



brothers. Their home wa& in Switzerland, on 
the shore of a lake. One winter day the father 
was on the other side of the lake from the 
home, and the boys wanted to join him. The 
lake was covered with thick ice. The mother 
watched the boys from her window as they 
set out. They got on well until they came to 
a wide crack in the ice. Then they stopped, 
and the mother became very anxious, fearing 
they might be drowned. The older boy got 
over easily, but the little fellow was afraid to 
jump. Then, as the mother looked, she saw 
Louis, the older brother, get down on his 
face, his body stretched over the crack, mak- 
ing a bridge of himself, and then she saw 
his little brother creep over on him. 
This story is a beautiful parable of love. We 
should be willing to make bridges of ourselves 
on which others may pass over the chasms and 
the streams that hinder them in their way. 
We have many opportunities of doing this in 
helping our brothers over hard places, out of 
temptation, through sickness, to positions, or 
over into some better way of living. It is not 

[84] 



C^e 9Joi? of ti&e Cto^ 

pleasant to lie down on the ice or in the wet 
and let another use us as a bridge. But Christ 
did it. His cross was just the laying of His 
own blessed life over the awful chasm of 
death and despair that we might pass over 
on Him into joy and hope and heaven. He 
endured the cross, despising shame, that He 
might save us. We cannot call ourselves Chris- 
tians if we balk or falter or hesitate in re- 
sponding to calls to endure suffering, loss, or 
shame in order to help others. " He that 
saveth his life shall lose it." 
Life is not easy for any of us. It may be easy 
to live without self-denial, to live to please 
ourselves. Many people have no higher 
thought of life than this. They like to have 
friends, but they never think of being a 
friend when it means inconvenience, trouble, 
or cost to themselves; when it requires sacri- 
fice, the giving up of comfort, ease, or pleas- 
ure, to help another. They call themselves 
Christians, but they never think of doing any- 
thing that requires discomfort, self-denial. 
There is no teaching of the Master which by 

[85] 



any possibility can be made to put the stamp 
of Christian on such living as this. 
There is a legend of a monk to whose cell- 
door there came one night one in lordly mien, 
wearing rich dress, his hands sparkling with 
jewels, his whole appearance betokening lux- 
ury. " Who art thou? " asked the monk, as he 
opened the door. " I am Christ," was the an- 
swer in a tone which did not suggest the meek 
and lowly One. The monk scanned his visi- 
tor severely for a moment, and then asked, 
" Where is the print of the nails? " The im- 
postor blanched before the question and fled. 
Everything that is truly of Christ bears the 
print of the nails. Where this sign is not 
found, whether it be in a life, in a creed, in 
a character, or even in a church, we have a 
right to say, " This is not of Christ." 
Not only did Jesus bear the cross Himself, 
bowing under its burden and submitting to 
have His body nailed upon it, but He tells us 
that if any man will follow Him, he, also, 
must bear the cross. And this does not mean 
merely that we are to share Christ's cross — 

[86] 



C^e 3Jo? of tye Cross 

that is, trust in it for salvation, hide beneath 
its shadow for refuge; it means that we are 
to bear our own cross; that is, the principle 
for which the cross stands must be the law of 
our life. The cross means voluntary sur- 
render to the will of God. It means death to 
selfishness, and joyful acceptance of all duty. 
It means the giving up of one's life, all one's 
dreams of pleasure or profit or ease, whenever 
the Master calls for service. 
Not only must the cross be endured, but it 
must be endured cheerfully. Some people al- 
ways chafe and fret when they are called to 
do any hard or disagreeable duty. Perhaps 
they do it, but they do it in a way which robs 
the act of all beauty. Jesus endured His cross 
with joy, and that is the way He would have 
us do with our cross. We must not fret when 
the way is rough, when the task is disagree- 
able. We must not murmur when we are called 
to suffer, to endure loss, to pass through sor- 
row. We are to bear our cross joyfully. 
There come experiences in many lives when it 
is not easy to do this, the load is so heavy. It 

[87] 



seems we cannot go farther, but must sink 
under our burdens. But Jesus deals very 
gently with those who find the cross heavy. 
He sympathizes, for He knows what it means 
to suffer. He sank under His own cross and 
had to be helped with it by a passer-by on the 
way to Calvary. He understands when we 
sink beneath our cross. A sonnet, " Via Do- 
lorosa," has its comfort for those whose load 
is very heavy. 

"'Daughter, take up thy cross, and follow Me.' 
1 1 hear, Master, and would follow still, 
Did not my frame, grown weaker than my will, 
Because my long-borne cross weighs heavily, 
Most helpless sink when I would most obey; 
But Thou that in Gethsemane didst pray 
The cup might pass, if such His will might be, 
Till Thou wast over-worn by agony, 
And so didst sink exhausted on the way 
To Calvary, till they raised the cross from Thee — 
Thou wilt not chide if for a while at length 
Weakened by anxious vigil, wrestling, loss, 
Sinking, and finding none to raise my cross, 
I lie where fallen, and wait returning strength. 9 



[88] 



>> 



C&e &uegt of ^apptnm 



[89] 



This is peaoe: 
To conquer love of self and lust of life; 
To tear deep-rooted passion from the breast; 
To still the inward strife; 

To lay up lasting treasure 
Of perfect service rendered, duties done 
In charity, soft speech and stainless days : 
These riches shall not fade away in life, 
Nor any death dispraise. 

— Sir Edwin Arnold. 

Perish dark memories I 

There's light ahead; 
This world's for the living, 

Not for the dead. 

Down the great currents 

Let the boat swing ; 
There was never winter 

But brought the spring ! 

— Edward Rowland Sill. 



[90] 



CHAPTER EIGHTH 

C^e ^uejst of ^appinm 




VERYBODY wants to be 
happy. Yet there is an 
almost infinite diversity of 
opinion concerning what 
happiness is, and also 
concerning the way in 
which happiness is to be found. What gives 
one person the most complete, heart-filling 
satisfaction has no attraction whatever for 
another. A good man was telling his friends 
that he had never been happier in his life 
than he was on a certain evening recently, 
and he then described a religious service at 
which a little company of devout Christians 
met together, spending an hour in prayer, 
Bible-reading, hymn-singing, and spiritual 
conversation. There are many others to whom 
also this service would have given great de- 
light and very deep joy. But there are those 
who would find no pleasure at all in such a 
meeting. 

[91] 



Persons are often heard speaking rapturously 
of their enjoyment of a certain amusement. 
" I never was so happy in my life," one says 
enthusiastically, referring to an hour of en- 
tertaining pleasure. Yet there are many ex- 
cellent people who would not have found the 
smallest degree of enjoyment in the particu- 
lar amusement which so thoroughly satisfied 
this person. One's idea of happiness is en- 
tirely sensuous, while another finds pleasure 
only in intellectual enjoyment. A little girl 
is blissfully content with her doll, and a boy 
with his tin soldiers or his toy locomotive and 
train. Music has charms which captivate one 
person, while another, sitting alongside, ex- 
periences not one thrill of pleasure. Oliver Wen- 
dell Holmes said his conception of happiness 
was "four feet on the fender. " So Cowper: 

Domestic happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall. 

Plato says, " Virtue is sufficient of herself for 
happiness." But there are those who think 
virtue exceedingly dull and devoid of power 

[92] 



C^e litest of l^apptne^ 

to give happiness. Some find pleasure in a 
simple life, while others demand continual 
excitement. 

Thus while the quest of happiness is univer- 
sal, it is sought along a thousand different 
paths. It is well that we have a true concep- 
tion of the happiness we wish to find before 
we set out on our search. There are several 
things that may be set down as settled re- 
garding any happiness that is true and en- 
during. 

One is that its secret is in the life itself, and 
not in the outer circumstances. Its source is 
within, not without. It does not depend on 
what we have, but on what we are. We cannot 
attain it, therefore, by merely bettering our 
earthly conditions. A man may prosper in his 
affairs, and his humble dwelling may grow 
into a stately mansion, his plain living into 
sumptuous faring, and his wooden chairs and 
threadbare carpets into the finest and most 
luxurious household furnishing. But he may 
be no happier in all his splendor of wealth 
than he was when he was a poor man. 

[93] 



We cannot attain happiness by merely im- 
proving our earthly condition. Building a new 
house for a discontented woman, filling it with 
all beautiful things, and supplying all that 
the woman craves, will not make her contented 
and happy. When a man is burning up with 
fever he asks to have the air of his room 
cooled. He wants the windows thrown open 
and begs to be fanned, thinking that thus he 
will find relief. He does not know that the 
fever is in himself and not in the temperature 
of his room. So it is that no changing of con- 
ditions will cure our trouble ; it is in ourselves 
that the causes of happiness or unhappiness 
exist. If we are unhappy, we must look within 
for the secret. A busy woman went to her ocu- 
list, telling him that she must have her glasses 
changed. He made an examination and said 
to her that it was not new glasses her eyes 
needed, but rest. Many people think that if 
they only had a different set of circumstances 
their disquiet and unhappiness would vanish. 
But what they really need is rest, quiet within, 
the peace of God in their hearts. If the inner 

[94] 



fountains of our life flow full of joy, no mat- 
ter what our external circumstances may be, 
nothing can disturb the gladness or hush the 
song. In seeking happiness, therefore, we 
must look to our own condition of heart and 
life and not to the new atmosphere in which 
we live. 

Another thing about happiness is that we 
never can find it by seeking it directly, for 
itself. When you set out in the morning, say- 
ing that you are going to be happy that day, 
making that your first aim, you will miss what 
you seek. Such a quest is altogether selfish, 
and selfishness never yields anything beauti- 
ful or good. He who thinks of himself and 
lives for himself will never find happiness. It 
is only when in self-forgetfulness we strive to 
do good to others that our hearts find glad- 
ness. Happiness must be sought only as the 
fruit of a true and good life that produces 
it. It always eludes those who pursue it merely 
for its own sake, while it is found by those 
who walk in the paths of obedience and 
service. 

[95] 



Wfym t^e ^ong begins 

Reward is promised to those who keep God's 
commandments and live a good and useful 
life, but he who puts the reward first in his 
living, thinking not of pleasing God and 
helping his fellow-men, but of winning a 
crown, will miss what he seeks. If we would 
obtain the reward, we must not live to obtain 
it, but to do our duty. Then the reward will 
come as the outcome of our faithfulness. 
Another thing about happiness is that it is 
not found by him who thinks of receiving it 
only for himself. We must seek it for others 
as well as for ourselves. The man who prays 
only, " Lord, bless me," his thought and de- 
sire not going out beyond the narrow circle 
of his own life and his own interests and 
wants, will receive no answer. His prayer is 
selfish, and selfishness never gets the ear of 
God. The Lord's Prayer teaches us that in 
our petitions we are to include those about us, 
all our Father's family. We are taught to 
ask for bread, not for ourself alone, but for 
others. The petition is not, " Give me this 
day my daily bread," but, " Give us this day 

[96] 



our daily bread." We cannot pray even for 
the forgiveness of our own sins only, but 
must ask for the forgiveness of the sins of 
others in the same pleading. 

" Remain not folded in thy pleasant joys, 
Within the narrow circle of thy walls, 
Content, if thine are blessed. Cold is thy fire, 
If on thy hearthstone only; and thy bread 
Bitter, which feeds alone thy selfish brood; 
Thy house a prison, if it hold thy world, 
Thy heaven a fiction." 

The man who thinks only of his own happi- 
ness is violating the great law of love. We 
may not live as we please, regardless of the 
good or the comfort of others. We have no 
right to any personal enjoyment which would 
do harm or cause inconvenience or loss to 
another bound up with uc in life's bundle. 
" Love worketh no ill to his neighbor." If the 
pleasure we are enjoying is giving pain to 
others about us, it is not rightly ours. Love 
always thinks of its neighbors. It seeketh not 
its own. It is thoughtful and self-forgetful. 
We can find true happiness only when we 

[97] 



think of the good of others, even before our 
own. It is not what we have ourselves alone 
that gives us joy, but what we are sharing 
with others and giving to others. 

" // thou art blest, 
Then let the sunshine of thy gladness rest 
On the dark edges of each cloud that lies 
Black in thy brother's skies. 
If thou art sad 
Still be thou in thy brother's gladness glad." 

Another thing about true happiness is that 
we never can find it if we seek for it only on 
this earth. There is a happiness of this world 
which has its springs here, and there are 
thousands who look no higher in their quest. 
But there is no cant in saying that the pleas- 
ure which is only of this world, which leaves 
out God, Jesus Christ, the Ten Command- 
ments, the Beatitudes, the law of love, and 
heaven, is not the happiness which will finally 
satisfy any immortal soul. It does not reach 
high enough. It would not satisfy an angel. 
Then reason tells us that the happiness an 
immortal being should seek must itself be im- 

[98] 



« " 



mortal. Otherwise it will last only a little 
while along the way, while we stay in the 
present world. We cannot carry it with us 
into the other life. It is not enough to have 
an enjoyment which can make us glad only 
for such a little distance on the way, and will 
then fail us, leaving us to go all the other 
long, immortal miles without its light or 
cheer. 

We can find abiding happiness only by letting 
God into our lives, by loving Him, trusting 
Him, and doing His will instead of our own, 
and by taking His way rather than our own 
way in life. We are made for God and can 
find true joy only in God and in His service. 
If we are Christ's, our real home is in heaven, 
and we cannot find in this world that which 
will meet our immortal cravings. We must 
drink of the streams that have their sources 
in heaven if we would find full and endur- 
ing happiness. 

God wants us to be happy. He has put us in 
a world which is filled with beauty. He has 
provided for us countless sources of gladness, 

[99] 



U W 



putting within our reach the joys of human 
friendship, the inspirations and comforts of 
home, and the blessings of divine grace. Even 
in the most painful circumstances He makes 
joy possible for us. If all earthly good should 
be taken from us, He brings us heaven's 
peace. If we only learn to do God's will day 
by day, without question, without reserve, 
cheerfully, we shall find the gladness we seek. 
Then our lives shall be songs and shall leave 
undying blessings in the world. 
It is worth while to be a singing bird in this 
world in which there are so many harsh and 
discordant sounds and so many cries of pain. 
It is yet more worth while to be a singing 
Christian, giving out notes of gladness amid 
earth's sorrows. For many of us it is not easy 
to be always glad. But we should learn our 
lesson so well that whether amid circumstances 
of sorrow or of joy the song never shall be 
interrupted. Like the robin, we should train 
ourselves to sing even in the rain. 
We shall have our sorrows, and they may be 
very bitter. We shall have to endure pain, 

[100] 



again and again, and it may be very hard to 
endure. We shall have our griefs and our 
losses, and ofttimes our hearts may seem to 
break. But through all these experiences the 
light of joy shall continue to shine within us, 
and our peace shall not be broken. The hap- 
piness God gives is part of the lif e of heaven, 
and in that home the light goeth not out by 
day and there is no night there. 

"My neighbor's grief is dark to me. 
I gaze and dread, without ; 
And marvel, how he lives to bear 
The blackness, and the doubt. 

" And yet, by all lost ways of grief 
That I have had to plod, 
I know how small a rift lets through 
A little gleam of God." 



[101] 



ADbeDience tljat pitam C^rtjst 



[103] 



/ said, "Let me walk in the fields," 
He said, "No; walk in the town." 

I said, " There are no flowers there" 
He said, "No flowers, but a crown." 

I said, "But the skies are black; 

There is nothing but noise and din." 
And He wept as He sent me back — 

"There is more," He said; "there is sin." 

I said, "But the air is thick, 

And the fogs are veiling the sun." 

He answered : " Yet souls are sick, 
And souls in the dark, undone." 

I said, "I shall miss the light; 

And friends will miss me, they say." 
He answered, " Choose to-night 

If I am to miss you, or they." 

I pleaded for time to be given. 

He said, " Is it hard to decide T 
It will not be hard in heaven 

To have followed the steps of your Guide" 

Then into His hand went mine ; 

And into my heart came He ; 
And I walk in a light divine 

The path I had feared to see. 

— George Macdonald. 



[104] 



CHAPTER NINTH 



ADbeDtence t^at pitam C&rigt 




T is not enough to begin; 
the test of a true life is 
in its persistence unto the 
end. A good beginning is 
important. The trouble 
with many people is that 
they do not begin at all. They listen, ponder, 
dream, and resolve, but never take the first 
step. That is the way thousands of men, with 
splendid possibilities, fail to make anything 
of their life, miss their chance. Nothing is 
more important than promptness in doing 
the duty that comes to one's hand. Not to do 
it at the moment is to lose the opportunity 
of doing it at all. 

But it is not enough to begin. The paths of 
life are marked at every step with unfinished 
work. It is persistence that alone wins the 
prizes. Jesus said to certain persons who had 
believed on Him, " If ye abide in My word, 

[105] 



then are ye truly My disciples." To abide in 
Christ's word is to be always faithful to it. 
The one great duty of discipleship is obedi- 
ence. The word abide has the thought of 
home in it, and suggests also a willing and 
loving obedience, hearty, trustful, joyous. 
Jesus said of His own obedience, " My meat 
is to do the will of Him that sent Me." Obedi- 
ence was bread, life, to Him. We must abide 
in Christ's word. It may sometimes cost us a 
great deal to obey — it would be much easier 
to listen to the voice of ease or self-indul- 
gence. But the question of ease or inclination 
must never be considered. The only ques- 
tion is : " What is the Master's plan for my 
life?" 

The highest and noblest success possible to 
any life is its realization of the divine pur- 
pose for it. Whatever else we may do, what- 
ever great thing, whatever praise we may win 
from men for our fine attainments and our 
splendid achievements, if we miss filling the 
place God made us to fill and doing the work 
God made us to do, we have missed the true 

[106] 



glory of our life. The most triumphant word 
anyone can say at the end of his life is, " I 
have accomplished the work which Thou 
gavest Me to do." 

It is most important, therefore, that we find 
the will of God for our life and accept it 
sweetly and gladly. There are those who are 
always at odds with their circumstances. The 
people they have to live with or work with 
are uncongenial and disagreeable. The condi- 
tions in which they find themselves are uncom- 
fortable and distasteful. So they chafe and 
fret and are full of discontent. All this un- 
happiness could be cured if they would accept 
their circumstances and get their own spirit 
in proper accord with the will of God. When 
St. Paul could say, " I have learned in what- 
soever state I am, therein to be content," he 
had found the secret of sweet and joyous liv- 
ing. You cannot change the people about you 
and make them agreeable to live with; but 
you can learn to keep sweet yourself, how- 
ever irritating others may be. You may not 
have power to make your surroundings pleas- 

[107] 



ant and congenial, but you can bring your 
own mind and heart into such patience, such 
cheerfulness, such self-control, such peace, 
that in whatsoever state you are, you shall 
be content. As Browning puts it: 

The common problemj yours, mine, every one's, 
Is — not to fancy what were fair in life 
Provided it could be, — but, finding first 
What may be, then find how to make it fair 
Up to our means; a very different thing. 

Many people are unhappy because they can- 
not do the large and fine things which they 
see some other people doing. But we should 
remember that the things that God has given 
us to do, however small they may be, are 
really the greatest things we can possibly do. 
Self-surrender to God, though our fondest 
ambition is laid down, is in God's sight really 
the noblest thing we can do with our life. Be- 
cause we cannot achieve the great things it 
is in our heart to do, our life need not there- 
fore be a failure; the folding of our hands 
in trust and resignation may be a greater act 

[ 108 ] ' 



Obedience ttyat piza$t$ C^tfgt 

in God's sight and a greater benediction to 
the world than the finest work those hands 
might have done. 

At least, if we would reach the highest and 
best possibilities of Christian discipleship, we 
must put ourselves in full harmony with the 
will of God for us. We must be content to 
let God use us how and where He will, and 
to do what He would have us do. Many peo- 
ple make almost nothing of their lives, do 
little that is worthy or beautiful, because 
they are not willing to do the plain, lowly 
things that are ever waiting close to their 
hands, but strive always to find conspicuous 
things to do so as to get praise of men. If 
you would leave behind you when you go 
away a beautiful story of good done, things 
which have made the air sweeter, and the 
-world better and happier, do what the Master 
wants you to do. Christina Rossettfs little 
prayer to be used is very beautiful : 

Use me, God, in Thy great harvest-field 
Which stretcheth far and wide, like a wide sea. 

[109] 



Btyett tfje ^ong "Begins 

The gatherers are so few, I fear the precious yield 
Will suffer loss. 0, find a place for me — 

A place where best the strength I have will tell ; 

It may be one the other toilers shun ; 
Be it a wide or narrow place, His well, 

So that the work it holds be only done. 

If we would make our discipleship what we 
should make it, we must keep self out of it. 
We cannot live for ourselves and live for 
Christ. Then we must also learn the lesson 
of love for others. Self-seeking is nowhere 
else so unseemly, so unlovely, as it is in Chris- 
tian life and Christian work. Ruskin has a 
passage in which he portrays the self-seeker 
and tells of the outcome of his life : " So far 
as you desire to possess rather than give; so 
far as you look for power to command in- 
stead of to bless ; so long as you seek position 
for self instead of for another; so long as 
you crave homage and have the desire to be 
greatest instead of a desire for self-effacement 
and to be least — just so long you are serving 
the lord of all that is last and least, and you 

[110] 



ADbeDience tijat p\tm$ Cljrijst 

shall not win the crown laid up for the self- 
sacrificing, but you shall have death's crown, 
with the worm coiled within it, and death's 
wages, with the worm feeding on them." 
It is a canon of art that only a good man 
can paint a great picture. A connoisseur of 
art, looking at a painting, said, " That man 
must have risen to great spiritual heights be- 
fore he could have painted that figure of the 
Christ." His friend told him the story of the 
picture. Two boys, twins, chose art as their 
life-work. They toiled and struggled, keeping 
themselves from everything that would weaken 
either their physical or moral well-being. 
Some wealthy friends proposed to lionize 
them, but the boys declined all help, all pat- 
ronizing. " We will not sell our manhood," 
they said to each other. " We will hew out 
our own paths." And they did, their hearts 
set meanwhile on a great work of art, the 
Christ, which they wished to produce. " We 
must live and work," they said, " that our 
ideal will be possible when we come to the ful- 
ness of our powers." At the age of forty- 

cm] 



Wtyn tyt ^ong begins 

eight one of the twins died, and after his first 
passion of grief the other said, " Now I must 
do my brother's work as well as my own." 
" That painting," the friend continued, " is 
the culmination of the life-work of these two 
men. Do you wonder at its excellence? " 
With Christian work it is still more true than 
with art work that only a good man can do 
it well. If we would reach the great possibili- 
ties of discipleship we must seek purity of 
motive, holiness of life, devotion to lofty 
ideals, and self-forgetfulness in striving for 
worthy ends. We must be good, if we would 
do good. We must realize the Christ in our 
own life before we can show others the glory 
and the beauty of the Christ. 
Then if we would fulfil our discipleship we 
must concentrate all our energy and strength 
upon it. We must make it the first thing in 
our life to be Christians. That is what St. 
Paul meant of himself when he said, " To me 
to live is Christ," or when he said again, 
" This one thing I do — I press toward the 
goal." He did a great many things, but in 

[112] 



ADbeDfettce t^at peageg oD&rtgt 

them all he was living Christ and reaching 
toward the goal of perfection. We can do 
this in the surest way by giving Christ our 
days one by one as they come. 

" With every rising of the sun 
Think of your life as just begun. 

" The past has shrivelled and buried deep 
All yesterdays. There let them sleep ; 

" Nor seek to summon back one ghost 
Of that innumerable host. 

" Concern yourself with but to-day , 
Woo it, and teach it to obey 

" Your will and wish. Since time began. 
To-day has been the friend of man ; 

" But in his blindness and in his sorrow 
He looks to yesterday and to-morrow. 

" You and to-day ! a soul sublime, 
And the great pregnant hour of time, 

" With God himself to bind the twain ; 
Go forth, I say ; attain ! attain ! " 

A business man when asked the secret of his 
success in doing things so well, replied, " I 

[113] 



— — ^— — 

do not know unless it be that whatever I am 
doing any moment, however small a thing it 
may seem to be, I bring all my mind and 
heart and strength to it." The poet bids us, 
if we write but one line, to make that sublime. 
Let us learn to bring all the strength of our 
life to the smallest details of our duty. Let 
us make the moments beautiful, and then the 
hours will be radiant and the days glorious. 



[114] 



<fttot>$ip toity Christ 



[115] 



Oh, never is "Loved once " 
Thy word, thou Victim-Christ, misprized friend ! 

Thy cross and curse may rend, 
But, having loved, thou lovest to the end. 
This is man's saying — man's : too weak to move 

One sphered star above, 
Man desecrates the eternal God-word Love 

By his No More and Once. 



Say never, Ye loved once : 
God is too near above, the grave beneath, 

And all our moments breathe 
Too quick in mysteries of life and death 
For such a word. The eternities avenge 

Affections light of range. 
There comes no change to justify that change, 

Whatever comes — Loved once! 

— Mrs. Browning. 



[116] 



CHAPTER TENTH 



tfvlmtufyip t»itl> €W& 




HE ideal Christian life is a 
personal friendship with 
Jesus Christ. Yet some 
persons have difficulty in 
understanding how a per- 
sonal friendship can be 
formed with one they cannot see, whose voice 
they cannot hear, whose touch they cannot 
feel. But friendship with Christ is not depend- 
ent on sight or touch or hearing. He can make 
Himself known to our hearts in spiritual 
revealings. One saintly man said, " I know 
no other friend so well as I know Jesus 
Christ." 

We may find much in human friendship that 
will make friendship with Christ plain to us. 
It is more than mere acquaintance. There are 
many who have superficial ideas about friend- 
ship. They will talk to you about their " hosts 
of friends." But no one can really have a host 

[117] 



Wtyn t^e ^>ong ^Begins 

of friends. A quaint minister used to say that 
he could fill the meeting-house with those who 
were friendly to him, but that the pulpit 
would hold all his friends. People tell you that 
this man and that one and the other are their 
friends. What they might say truthfully is 
that these men are their acquaintances. They 
meet them now and then in business or socially, 
and their relations are cordial and kindly. But 
that is not friendship. It may be something 
very beautiful, very charming, very inspir- 
ing and helpful. Friendliness has its blessings. 
Acquaintanceship has its cheer, its inspira- 
tions, its influence in our lives. But friendship 
is something far deeper. It knits lives together 
closely and indissolubly. 

There are those who call themselves friends 
of Christ who likewise are little more than 
chance acquaintances. They know Him only 
in a superficial way. They are not bound to 
Him by any strong tie. They easily drift away 
from Him. That is not friendship. You do 
not want for your friend one who is with 
you to-day and off to-morrow. A friend is 

[118] 



one who loves and does not cease to love. 
Christ having loved, loved unto the end. His 
ideal of friendship was, once a friend, always 
a friend. " If the friendship ceases or breaks, 
it never was a friendship." Friendship with 
Christ should carry the whole heart and life 
with it, and nothing should ever weaken it or 
wear it out. Then it should be close, tender, 
intimate. It is not enough to have a mere dis- 
tant acquaintance with Christ — He wants us 
to be His heart-friends. It is not enough to 
know a great deal about Christ — we must 
know Him by personal knowledge. 
One quality of true friendship is trust. Not 
only do you love to be with your friend, but 
in his presence you have no fear. You do not 
have to be on your guard when with him, lest 
you say a word too much or too little. You 
have no fear that he will misunderstand you. 
Out in the world you have to be most careful 
always, for sometimes those about you are 
watching to see something to criticise in you 
or to use against you. The enemies of Jesus 
watched Him to discover something with 

[119] 



which to accuse Him. But there was none of 
this atmosphere of suspicion about Him when 
He went into the home of Martha and Mary. 
The moment He entered that door He was 
safe. He did not need then to be on His 
guard. 

In one of Mrs. Craik's books is a sentence 
which gives an exquisite picture of this phase 
of friendship. " Oh, the comfort, the inex- 
pressible comfort of feeling safe with a per- 
son, having neither to weigh thoughts nor 
measure words, but only to pour them all 
right out just as they are — chaff and grain 
together — knowing that a faithful hand will 
take and sift them, keep what is worth keep- 
ing, and then with the breath of kindness 
blow the rest away ! " What could be more 
sacred than this comfort of feeling safe with 
a person, absolutely safe? That is the kind of 
friend Jesus is. You may always feel safe 
with Him. You may confess all your sins to 
Him. You may tell Him all your faults and 
your failures — how you denied Him the other 
night, how you failed to be true to Him, and 

[ 120 ] 



all the bad thoughts of your heart; and He 
will be just as tender and gracious as if you 
never had sinned. He loves unto the end. 
None of us would want to have our hearts 
photographed and the picture held up before 
the eyes of our neighbors. We would not want 
even our best friends to see a full transcript 
of our secret life — what goes on within us — 
the jealousies, the envyings, the bitter feel- 
ings, the stained thoughts, the meannesses, 
selfishnesses, and suspicions, the doubts and 
fears ; yet Christ sees all this unworthy inner 
life, and loves us still. We need never be afraid 
to trust Him with the knowledge of the worst 
that is in us. We do not need to hide our 
weaknesses from Him. His friendship knows 
all and yet loves us better than it knows. He 
never withdraws His love. 
That is Christ's side. We may trust Him 
absolutely and forever. But how about our 
friendship for Him ? Can He trust us as abso- 
lutely? May He always be sure of finding us 
loyal and true wherever we are? When He 
has placed us anywhere, at any post, to do 

[121] 



any duty, may He know that He will find us 
there, whatever perils may sweep round us? 
Did you ever think that Christ trusts you 
and depends upon you? You trust Him and 
you know that He will never fail you. Not 
one of His words ever can pass away. You 
may lean upon Him in time of danger, and 
He will sustain you, hold you up. But do you 
ever think that He trusts you also? He gives 
you a duty, and He depends upon you to 
perform it. He sets you to be His witness at 
some point, and He expects you to be loyal, 
faithful, even unto death. He sends someone 
to be guarded by you, cared for, guided, 
protected. Are you always faithful to your 
trust? 

A general blamed the defeat of his army, in 
a great battle, on one commander who failed 
to hold a certain point, as was expected of 
him. His failure compelled the whole army 
to retreat. Jesus sets each one of us to stay 
at a certain point to hold it for Him. Our 
failure may bring disaster to some great plan, 
may lead to the defeat of a whole division of 

[122] 



His army and the harming of His cause in 
a whole community. Christ trusts us and en- 
trusts to us great interests and destinies. Let 
us never fail Him. We may always trust Him. 
But may He trust us always? Are His in- 
terests safe in our keeping? 

" Keep me in step with Thee, dear Lord, 
As upward day by day 
The way of holiness I tread, 
The new, the living way. 

" Yes, keep me holy, cleansed, and -filled, 
Walking in step with Thee ; 
Kept for Thy use, and Thine alone, 
Thine all the praise shall be." 

Another quality in true friendship is readiness 
to serve. A friend keeps nothing back when 
there is need for help. A prize was offered 
for the best definition of a friend. Many per- 
sons competed, but the definition which was 
adjudged the best and to which the prize was 
awarded was, " A friend — the first person who 
comes in when the whole world has gone out." 
Some of us know the truth of this definition 

[123] 



Wtym tyz ^>ong Begins 

by experience. There was a time when we 
needed a friend and one by one our acquaint- 
ances and those who called us friend, passed 
by and passed on and away — cold, unsympa- 
thetic, unheeding, leaving us to struggle alone 
with our burden, our need, or our responsi- 
bility. Then when all had gone out there came 
one, cheerful, brave, strong, unselfish, speak- 
ing the word or doing the deed which brought 
us relief, so that we could go on our way 
without failing. 

It is such a friend that Christ is to us — when 
all the world has gone out and no one is ready 
to help, He comes in ; when all human friends 
have failed us, He stands beside us, strong 
and faithful. Human love may be true, but 
at best its power is limited. It can go only 
one short mile with us, and then must fall 
out, fall behind, leaving us to go on alone. 
It has no wisdom to help beyond the merest 
borders of experience. We are powerless in 
the presence of any great human need. True 
friendship can do much. One wrote to a friend 
that he had never crossed the friend's thresh- 

[ 124] 



old with a grief but that he went away with- 
out it ; had never come heart-hungry without 
being fed and having his sorrow comforted. 
Never had the friend's door been closed to 
him for even one little day. Yet there came 
a day when even that door was closed, when 
that friendship gave no help, no response, no 
consolation, no comfort. Human friendship 
is wondrously sweet, yet there come experi- 
ences when the truest, strongest human friend 
can do nothing. But when all the world has 
gone out, Christ will come in. He is an unfail- 
ing, an eternal Friend. 

Here again, however, we must think of our 
side of this friendship. Christ is ready al- 
ways to serve us, even to the uttermost. There 
is nothing He will not do for us in our time 
of need. But are we as ready to serve Him? 
Do we never drop out when the duty becomes 
hard, when the burden grows heavy, when 
danger is before us? It should be true of us 
that when all others fail Christ, we shall come 
in with our service, our self-sacrifice. 
Sometimes the best proof of friendship is in 

[125] 



its asking hard things. In war the commander 
does not shield his friend from danger. There 
is a story of a great general who called for 
someone to lead a forlorn hope, when his own 
son volunteered. The old soldier's eyes lighted 
with love and pride. Handing the standard 
to his boy, he said, " There is your task. Yon- 
der is the enemy. Go forward." One can con- 
ceive of love that would have withheld the 
boy from the splendid heroism because of the 
peril in it. But that would not have been sol- 
dierly love. The father was glad to encourage 
the bravery in his boy whatever the cost might 
be. The friendship of our Master does not 
restrain us from hard tasks, from costly sac- 
rifices, and we must be as ready for these 
severer tests of friendship as for the easier 
ones. The more heroic the service to which we 
are called, the greater is the honor conferred 
upon us, and the more careful must we be 
not to fail or disappoint our Lord. 
Another quality of true friendship is its long- 
ing for companionship, for fellowship, for 
communion. Many of us know the wretched- 

[126] 



ness which comes because of necessary separa- 
tion from those who are dear to us. Helen 
Hunt Jackson writes of " Absence " : 

The shortest absence brings to every thought 
Of those we love a solemn tenderness. 
It is akin to death. Now we confess, 

Seeing the loneliness their loss has brought. 

That they were dearer far than we had taught 
Ourselves to think. We see that nothing less 
Than hope of their return could cheer or bless 

Our weary days. We wonder how, for aught 
Or all of fault in them, we could heed, 

Or anger, with their loving presence near, 
Or wound them by the smallest word or deed. 

It grieves our Master to have us absent from 
Him. Yet do we never leave His side? We 
grieve Him if we drift away from Him. We 
please Him if we yield our whole life to Him 
in the perfect abandonment of love and trust. 
Then wherever we go, amid whatever strug- 
gles or temptations, or into whatever worldly 
experiences, we shall be kept at one with Him, 
His heart and ours knit together, His life 
and ours blending in one. 

[127] 



C^e anraogm?e& C&rigt 



[129] 



"Oh, what is this pathway white, with parapets of light, 
Whose slender links go up, go up, and meet in heaven 

high? 
'Tis the Road of the Loving Heart from earth to sky. 

"Who made the beautiful road ? It was the Son of God, 
Of Mary born in Bethlehem. He planned it first, and 

then 
Up the Road of the Loving Heart He led all men. 

" Was it not hard to build f Yes, all His years were filled 
With labor, but He counted not the cost nor was afraid : 
No Road of the Loving Heart is cheaply made. 11 



[130] 



CHAPTER ELEVENTH 



€^e $ttrecogm?eD C^rtjst 




NE of the most beautiful in- 
cidents of the Easter Day 
is the one that occurred 
at Emmaus. Two disci- 
ples were walking to their 
home in the country. On 
their way a stranger joined them and inquired 
the reason of their sadness. He talked with 
them and sought to comfort them. When 
they came to the end of their journey they 
begged the stranger to abide with them, as 
the day was far spent. As they sat down to 
their evening meal, they discovered that this 
stranger was Jesus Himself. He had walked 
with them all those miles unrecognized. 
It is so with us continually. Christ is with us, 
but we do not recognize Him. The question is 
often asked, " If Christ should come to-day, 
what would people do ? " 

[131] 



'' If Christ should come to-day, 
If we could find Him on the broad highway, 

Or city street, 
Oh, would we crowd to touch His garment's hem, 

Or kiss His feet?" 

We may leave off the " if," and say, " Christ 
has come ; He is on the street with us ; He is 
in the quiet room where we sit ; He is with us 
in the thick of our business affairs ; He is be- 
side us in the darkness when we flatter our- 
selves that nobody sees or knows what we are 
doing." 

There are two ways of thinking of this. One 
is, that we pass all our life in the presence of 
the living Christ and should never do any- 
thing, never speak a word, nor think a 
thought, nor cherish a feeling, of which we 
would be ashamed if we saw His holy eyes 
looking down into ours. The other thought is, 
that we are never left alone in any need, 
trouble, or danger. We do not have to call 
for Christ or send for Him, as Martha and 
Mary did, when their brother was sick, wait- 
ing for Him — one day, two days, four days, 

[132] 



until it seemed His coming at last was too late. 
He is always near, nearer than our dearest 
friend. 

We think of Christ as in heaven, and so He is ; 
but He is just as really on the earth as in 
heaven. A recent writer happily illustrates 
this by the sky. We look up at the sky and it 
seems far away, like a great blue arch or 
canopy, high above us. But where does the 
sky really begin? Not up in the air, above 
the hills and the mountains. It begins right 
beside us. Indeed, the sky is all about us. We 
walk in it. We sit down in it. We sleep in it. 
It is all about our house at night. We breathe 
the sky and draw nourishment for our life out 
of it. The rain comes out of the sky to re- 
fresh the earth and make it beautiful. This 
illustrates the nearness to us of the living 
Christ. We walk in Him. In Him we live and 
move and have our being. He is never so far 
off as even to be near — He is more than near. 
He wraps us round about continually with His 
blessed life. We breathe Christ if we are His 
friends. 

[133] 



It will be well if we train ourselves to think 
thus of Christ, as always as near to us as is 
the air surrounding us. We may think of Him 
as with us in our walks, at our business, in our 
home circles, in all the circumstances and ex- 
periences of our every days. 
A French painter has recently made a sensa- 
tion in Paris by the manner of his work. He 
fitted up a cab for a studio and drove about 
the streets, stopping here and there to make 
sketches of places and things he saw. People 
did not see him shut up in his cab, looking out 
upon them through his little window and tak- 
ing his pictures of the nooks and corners and 
by-ways of Parisian life. He thus caught all 
manner of scenes and incidents in the city's 
hidden ways. He then transferred his sketches 
to canvas and put Christ everywhere among 
them. When the people saw his work, they 
were startled, for they saw themselves in 
their everyday life, in all their follies and 
frivolities, and always Christ in the midst. 
Every kind of actual life is on the canvas, 
and in the heart of it all — the Christ. 

[134] 



Could there be a truer representation of the 
living Christ than this? There is no part of 
the whole life of any of us, whether good or 
bad, whether it be a holy scene of kindness, of 
helpfulness, of devotion, or a scene of frivol- 
ity or sin in which we would be ashamed to 
have ourselves caught and photographed — 
there is nothing in the life of any of our days 
or nights in which the Christ is not. 
We attend church to see Christ, and that is 
well — He loves to meet us in worship. We go 
to His table, and our communion is close and 
sweet. We need more, not fewer, of these 
trysts with our Lord. But we should never 
forget that the living Christ is with us, not 
only in holy places and at sacred times, but 
just as really in life's commonest ways and at 
every moment. 

The Emmaus disciples walked miles with the 
risen, living Christ that first Easter Day and 
did not recognize Him. Think what they 
missed. But think, also, what we miss contin- 
ually because we do not recognize the Christ 
Who comes to us in our need or sorrow. There 

[135] 



is a picture of a mourner — a fisherman's 
widow — sitting on a bare rock looking out 
over the sea, into which her husband and 
sons have gone down in their fishing-boat. 
Her grief is so great that her face seems 
stony with despair. A little behind and above 
her is an angel, touching the strings of his 
harp. But the mourner is not moved by the 
music — does not even hear it. So it is that 
many people are unaware of the presence and 
love of Christ. Think what they miss. Think 
what we all miss. Not one of us always recog- 
nizes Christ when He comes to help us. If we 
knew who it is that comes and why He comes, 
and would take the blessing He brings to us, 
what victorious lives we should live! 
The way Jesus revealed Himself to these Em- 
maus disciples is suggestive. It was at the 
evening meal, when He broke and blessed the 
bread, that in some way they discovered who 
He was. We are apt to think of Christ as 
coming to us only in unusual ways, whereas 
He really comes nearly always in familiar ex- 
periences. A disciple said to Jesus, " Lord, 

[136] 



C^e anrecogni^eti e^ttet 

show us the Father and it sufficeth us." The 
disciple expected to see a transfiguration, a 
theophany, some bright and dazzling display 
of divinity. Jesus answered him, " Have I 
been so long time with you and hast thou not 
known Me? He that hath seen Me hath seen 
the Father." He had been showing the Fa- 
ther to His disciples for three years, in pure, 
sweet living, in radiant joy and peace, in 
kindness, in patience, in thoughtfulness, in 
comfort for sorrow, in mercy to the penitent, 
in feeding the hungry, and opening blind 
eyes. They had seen these beautiful minis- 
tries, but they had never thought of them 
as being revealings of God. Some people say 
now that if they only saw some miracles 
they would believe on Christ. They want 
Him to do startling things. They do not 
think that the divine kindnesses which come 
continually in providence can be revealings of 
God. But in nearly all cases it is thus that 
Christ makes Himself known to us — in fa- 
miliar, common experiences, and not in start- 
ling or unusual ways. 

[137] 



Life is full of illustrations. A man left his 
home to seek for diamonds. He sold his little 
farm and sought far and near for precious 
stones, but found none. He came back in deep 
poverty and learned that the man who had 
bought his farm had found diamonds by his 
own doorstep and was immensely rich. An ar- 
tist sought for fine clay with which to fashion 
a work of art that would give him fame. Far 
and near his quest led him, and he returned 
weary, worn, and old, to learn that his ap- 
prentice had made marvels of beauty out of 
the clay in the artist's own yard. The knight 
in " The Vision of Sir Launfal " went over 
all lands in search of the Holy Grail and 
found it, at last, when he came home, by his 
own gate. We do not need to go far to find 
Christ — He is always near to us. We do not 
need to seek Him in great deeds, in marvellous 
ways. There is more of the revealing of Christ 
in the common ways of life than in all the 
world's great ways. Seek for Him in the 
simple duties of the passing days, in do- 
ing the work of the present moment, in 

[138] 



C^e antecogni?eH €i)tt$t 

showing love to those who have need of 
Christ. 

" He hath no need of me in grand affairs, 
Where fields are lost, or crowns won unawares. 

" Yet, Master, if I may make one pale flower 
Bloom brighter for Thy sake, through one short 
hour ; 

"If I, in harvest fields where strong ones reap, 
May bind one golden sheaf for Love to keep ; 

" May speak one quiet word when all is still, 
Helping some fainting heart to bear Thy will ; 

" Or sing one high, clear song on which may soar 
Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more. ,y 

In the Emmaus story Jesus vanished the 
moment the disciples recognized Him. " Their 
eyes were opened and they knew Him ; and He 
vanished out of their sight." How often it is 
true that only in their vanishing do our 
friends reveal themselves to us ! They live with 
us for days and years and bless us in count- 
less ways, bringing to us the best gifts of 
heaven, and yet, somehow, we do not see the 

[139] 



splendor of their lives or of their ministry 
until they are gone. 

"In this dim world of crowded cares 
We rarely know, till wildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies, 
The angels with us unawares" 

It is always so. We never know the best even 
of those we love most truly and appreciate 
most fully, until they are leaving us. Some- 
how our eyes are holden. Faults seem larger, 
and blemishes mar the picture more, and blots 
are blacker, in this world's light. But when 
the light of the other world falls upon our 
friends, our eyes are opened, and faults seem 
smaller and smaller, blemishes change into 
marks of loveliness, and blots turn white. 
We should learn not to wait until they are 
leaving us before we begin to see our loved 
ones fairly, justly, truly, with love's eyes. 
Of course, they have their faults and make 
their mistakes, but faults and mistakes may 
be only the imperfections of unripeness, of 
immaturity. Shall we not pray for eyes of 
charity that shall not see the flecks and flaws, 

[140] 



but that shall see the beauty and the worth, 
that are to be? 

"So many little faults we find : 

We see them, for not blind 
Is love ; we see them, but if you and I 
Perhaps remember them some by and by, 

They will not be 
Faults then — grave faults — to you and me, 
But just odd ways, mistakes, or even less — 

Remembrances to bless. 
Days change so many things, yes, hours — 
We see so differently in suns and showers ; 

Mistaken words to-night 
May be so cherished by to-morrow J s light. 

We may be patient, for we know 

There 1 s such a little way to go." 



[141] 



Lining up to flDur pxayzt$ 



[143] 



Thou, Father, thoughtst it best 

From my ken to take thy light ; 
Left me lying, without rest, 

Staring, wide-eyed, into night. 

By the lonely gloom of doubt 

I am frightened, like a child 
When the lamp is carried out 

And he cries, unreconciled, 

Till his soothing mother steals 

To his side and comfort brings, 
While across the dark he feels 

For her hand and to it clings. 

So I, Father, cry to Thee ! 

I ask not to understand — 
Take the lamp ; but come to me 

Through the dark and hold my hand. 

— Marian Warner Wildman. 



[ 144] 



CHAPTER TWELFTH 



lifting up to €>ur $raiw 




RAYER tests life. If we 
only tried seriously to live 
up to our praying we 
should often find a strange 
constraint upon our char- 
acter and conduct. We 
pray to be made unselfish ; if we demanded of 
ourselves all that this means, it probably 
would restrain many selfish impulses in us 
and radically affect our treatment of others. 
It would set us in new relations to all about 
us. It would check in us the crafty de- 
sire, so common among men, to get the 
better of others in all transactions. Someone 
writes : 

" God, that I might spend my life for others, 
With no ends of my own; 
That I might pour myself into my brothers. 
And live for them alone" 
[145] 



What would happen in us, what change, what 
transformation, if this prayer were to be an- 
swered? 

We pray to be made patient. If we are really 
sincere in this request we shall find ourselves 
halted many a time in our impetuous moods, 
our tongues silenced on the very edge of 
angry outbursts, and our harsh and bitter 
feelings softened by an irresistible contraint 
toward quietness and gentleness. 
There is no prayer that most Christians make 
oftener than that they may be made like 
Christ. It is a most fitting prayer, and one 
that we should never cease to make. But if 
we very earnestly wish to be transformed into 
Christ's likeness, we will find the desire grow- 
ing into great intensity in our daily lives, and 
transforming them. It will affect every phase 
of our behavior and conduct. It will hold be- 
fore us continually the image of our Lord, and 
will keep ever in our vision a new standard 
of thought, of feeling, of desire, of act, and 
word. It will keep us asking all the while such 
questions as these, " How would Jesus feel 

[146] 



UtoittQ up to £)ut ptayzvg 

about this if He were personally in my cir- 
cumstances? How would Jesus answer this 
question? What would Jesus do if He were 
here to-day where I am ? " 
Our Lord gives us some very definite instruc- 
tions concerning praying and living. For ex- 
ample, He teaches us that if we would have 
our sins forgiven we must forgive others. 
" Forgive us our debts, as we also have for- 
given our debtors." There is no mistaking the 
meaning of this petition. Each time we pray 
to be forgiven we commit ourselves to an act, 
something we must voluntarily do, before we 
can hope to receive an answer — we pledge our- 
selves to be forgiving. If we are sincere when 
we offer this prayer, and if we think seri- 
ously of what we are saying, no bitterness 
can stay in our hearts, no resentful feeling, 
no grudge. 

Yesterday someone wronged us, injured us, 
treated us unkindly, did something which 
stung us to the heart. Last night we looked 
back over our day, and it was blotted and 
stained. We asked God to forgive us these 

[147] 



evil things. He is very merciful, and loves 
to be gracious. But as we pray to be forgiven 
we promise something — we promise to for- 
give. If we would live up to our prayer we 
must give up our resentment, our bitterness, 
and must show the same mercy to others that 
we ask God to show to us. 
The Master tells us very plainly, also, what 
we should do when in the divine presence we 
become conscious of any wrong we have com- 
mitted. He is exhorting against anger in any 
form, and tells us in startling words that ha- 
tred, bitterness, and contempt of others are 
violations of the sixth commandment. Then 
He illustrates it in a very practical way, " If 
therefore thou art offering thy gift at the 
altar, and there rememberest that thy brother 
hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift 
before the altar, and go thy way, first be 
reconciled to thy brother, and then come and 
offer thy gift." 

When we approach the altar of prayer the 
light of God's holiness shines upon us, search- 
ing the deepest things in our hearts and lives. 

[148] 



JLfbfng up to £)ur ptan^ 

If in this exposure of the hidden springs of 
our being we find in ourselves feelings or qual- 
ities that are not right, we should instantly 
set them right. If we remember that yesterday 
we did something to another that was unlov- 
ing, that we were unjust or uncharitable to 
him, we cannot go on with our prayer until 
we have made right whatsoever was wrong in 
our treatment of him. In order to do this, it 
may be necessary ofttimes for us to rise from 
our knees and go out to undo some evil that 
we have done to another; to perform some 
neglected duty before we can finish our devo- 
tion; to make restitution if we have taken 
aught that was his or in any way have injured 
him. 

Children sometimes get literal views of great 
moral duties which startle us out of our easy 
notions. There is an interesting story of a boy 
whose prayer was brought to a sudden pause 
by his conscience impelling him to run away 
and undo a bit of childish mischief before he 
could go on. The story runs thus: 
"'If I should die 'fore I wake," 5 said 

[149] 



Donny, kneeling at grandmother's knee ; " 'if 

I should die 'fore I wake ' " 

" ' I pray,' " prompted the gentle voice. 
" Go on, Donny." 

" Wait a minute," interposed the small boy, 
scrambling to his feet and hurrying away 
downstairs. In a brief space he was back 
again, and, dropping down in his place, took 
up his petition where he had left it. But 
when the little white-gowned form was safely 
tucked in bed the grandmother questioned, 
with loving rebuke, concerning the inter- 
ruption in the prayer. " You didn't think 
what you were saying," she said apologeti- 
cally. 

" But I did think what I was sayin', grand- 
mother; that's why I had to stop. You see, 
I'd upset Ted's menagerie, and stood all his 
wooden soldiers on their heads, just to see 
how he'd tear 'round in the mornin'. But if I 
should die 'fore I wake, why I didn't want him 
to find 'em that way, so I had to go down and 
fix 'em right 'fore I could go on. There's lots 
of things that seem funny if you're goin' to 

[150] 



Ltofug up to £>ur $raret# 

keep on livin', but you don't want 'em if you 
should die 'fore you wake." 
"That was right, dear; it was right," com- 
mended the voice, with its tender quaver. " A 
good many of our prayers wouldn't be hurt 
by stopping in the middle of them to undo a 
wrong." 

It would be well if all of us had a little more 
of Donny's realism in our praying. It might 
stop the flow of our words sometimes, while 
we go out to set something right in the realm 
of action which in the divine presence we see 
to be wrong. But it would save us from some 
of the mockeries and insincerities of prayer 
which now so much mar our worship. 
Here is another illustration from childhood. 
A little boy was counting his money on the 
morning of a Fair day to which he had been 
looking forward with eager expectancy. He 
found in his pocket one ten-cent piece, two 
nickels, and eleven pennies. His father watched 
him going over his money and said, " Little 
man, aren't you going to put some of that in 
your missionary bank for children on the other 

[151] 



side of the world? " " I'm going to the Fair," 
said the boy. " Well, I think it would be a 
good thing to put some of it with the money 
that is to help other children to have a life 
with some happiness in it," replied the father. 
" I am going to the Fair, and I need it all," 
said the boy. 

" All right," said his father, " but come 
and say your morning prayer, and we will 
go down to breakfast." So the little fellow 
kneeled down and prayed for his family 
and home, that he might be a good boy, and 
then stopped. " Aren't you going to pray 
for the children on the other side of the 
world ? " asked his father. " I am saying this 
prayer alone," said the boy. " Well, but I 
wouldn't leave them out to-day," replied his 
father. 

The lad thought a moment, and then he 
prayed for the children in missionary lands. 
When he got up he took four of his pennies 
and put them into his missionary box. He 
knew that if he prayed for the heathen chil- 
dren he would have to give part of his money 

[ 152 ] 



JUfcing up to €>ur pvayu$ 

to the fund for sending the gospel to dark 
lands. When at last he made the prayer, he 
gave gladly. He couldn't help it. 
There are prayers, too, that we cannot finish 
on our knees — they can be completed only out 
in some field of active duty. Our neighbor is 
in trouble. We hear of it, and, believing in 
prayer, we go to our place of devotion and 
plead that God would send him the help he 
needs. But almost certainly, prayer is not 
all the duty of the hour. We cannot get the 
thought of the human need out of our mind. 
We must rise from our knees, go to our neigh- 
bor, and with our own hands do for him what 
needs to be done, and then return and finish 
our prayer. 

It is our duty always to pray, to take every- 
thing to God. But usually prayer is not 
enough alone. When we ask God to bless 
others, it is quite likely that the blessing will 
be sent to them through us. When we plead 
for one who is in need, it is probable that his 
need must be supplied from our plenty and 
through our hands. We must rise from our 

[153] 



knees and go out in paths of love and 
service. 

There is danger always of unconscious insin- 
cerity in our praying for spiritual blessings. 
The desires are to be commended. God ap- 
proves of them and will gladly bestow upon us 
the more grace we ask for, the more love, the 
greater faith, the purer heart, the new ad- 
vance in holiness. But these are attainments 
which are not bestowed upon us directly, as 
gifts from heaven. We have much to do in 
securing them. When we ask for spiritual 
blessings or favors, the Master asks, " Are 
you able to climb up to these heights ? Are you 
able to pay the price, to make the self-denial, 
to give up the things you love, in order to 
reach these attainments in holiness, in power, 
in spiritual beauty ? " 

If our lives were as good as our prayers, we 
should be saint-like in character. Our duty is 
not to bring our praying down to lower levels, 
but to bring our lives up to higher reaches. 
" Bring back the colors," shouted an officer 
to a color-sergeant, who was far up the 

[154] 



lifting up to ®ut ptaym 

heights, in advance of his regiment. " Bring 
up the men," answered the brave color-bearer 
from the hill-top. If we find that our prayers 
are beyond our living, our duty is not to 
lower them to suit the tenor of our living, but 
to bring our lives up to the higher standard 
of our praying. 



[1551 



tffnijsfyfng out Wofh 



f 157 ] 



Only a little shrivelled seed — 
It might be flower, or grass, or weed — 
Had fallen one day near the edge 
Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge ; 
Only a few scant summer showers ; 
Only a few clear, shining hours — 
That was all. Yet God could make 
Out of these, for a sick child's sake, 
A blossom-wonder as fair and sweet 
As ever broke at an angeVs feet. 

Only a life of barren pain, 

Wet with sorrowful tears for rain ; 

Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam 

Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream ; 

A life as common and brown and bare 

As the box of earth in the window there; 

Yet it bore at last the precious bloom 

Of a perfect soul in that narrow room — 

Pure as the snowy leaves that fold 

Over the flower's heart of gold. 

— Henry van Dyke. 



[ 158 ] 



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH 



tfutWna our Wotk 




T is a worthy desire to leave 
our work in this world 
finished. There is a sense 
in which no one's work 
can be complete. It can- 
not be perfect. The holi- 
est endeavors are marred by faults and flaws. 
Our whitest days are blotted by sin. At the 
best, we miss the mark. We fall below the di- 
vine standard. The most faithful come to the 
close of their days regretting the incomplete- 
ness of their life-work and the inadequacy of 
their achievements and attainments. 
In His last prayer, when He looked back over 
His life, our Lord said that He had accom- 
plished the work which His Father had given 
Him to do. He said, too, that He had glorified 
His Father on the earth. How could even He 
make God more glorious ? No man can add to 
the divine glory in itself. Can the little lamp 

[159] 



make the sun's burning splendor more daz- 
zling? Can the holiest human life add any- 
thing to the infinite holiness and whiteness of 
God? 

What Jesus says, however, is that He had 
glorified His Father on the earth — that is, He 
had made that blessed Name known among 
men as it never had been known before. No 
one had ever seen God. A few glimmerings of 
His glory had broken through the clouds in 
the revealings made by prophets and by 
other holy men, and in holy lives. Jesus came 
as the Word, speaking out of the silences of 
heaven to tell the world what the unseen God 
is and what His thoughts for men are. He 
glorified God on the earth in declaring God's 
love and mercy, His compassion, His father- 
hood. 

Part of our mission as Christians is to glorify 
God on the earth. " Whether therefore ye eat, 
or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the 
glory of God," says St. Paul. How are we to 
do this? We may do it by accepting every 
opportunity to speak of God to others, to 

[160] 



$intffyin& owr Btorfc 



tell them what He is to us, what He has done 
for us. Then we may glorify Him on the earth 
in our own lives. We are sent to repeat 
Christ's life. He was the Word — the great 
revealer of God. We are to be words, little 
words, giving out gleams of God. We may 
do this in our love for others. We may be kind, 
compassionate, thoughtful, gentle, unselfish, 
helpful. " Love's secret," says Faber, " is to 
be always doing things for God, and not 
to mind because they are such very little 
things." It was a saying of Lincoln's, " Die 
when I may, I want it said of me by those 
who know me best, that I always plucked a 
thistle and planted a flower, where I thought 
a flower would grow." We glorify God on 
the earth when we go about serving others as 
our Master did, showing kindness, making 
the paths smoother for weary feet, giving 
encouragement and cheer to discouraged ones, 
putting more of Christ into other homes and 
lives. 

We may also glorify God by living victori- 
ously, cheerfully, unselfishly, helpfully. We 

[ 161 ] " 



Wtyn t^e ^>ong "Begins 

glorify Him whenever we show men a vision 
of God in our own life, even the smallest frag- 
ment of God's beauty — patience in enduring 
wrong, self-denial in love and service, humility 
in exaltation. It makes the world a little 
sweeter and brings God a little nearer to 
men when we live as Christ lived and repeat 
even in smallest measure His gentleness and 
truth. 

" // / could live to God for just one day, 
One blessed day, from rosy dawn of day 
Till purple twilight deepens into night, 
A day of faith unfaltering, trust complete, 
Of love unfeigned and perfect charity, 
Of hope undimmed, of courage past dismay, 
Of heavenly peace, patient humility — 
No hint of duty to constrain my feet, 
No dream of ease to lull to listlessness; 
Within my heart no root of bitterness, 
No yielding to temptation' s subtle sway. 
Methinks in that one day would so expand 
My soul to meet such holy, high demand, 
That never, never more could hold me bound 
This shrivelling husk of self that wraps me 

round, 
So might I henceforth live to God alway. J) 

[162] 



finding our 3^otft 



Are we living thus? Are we glorifying God 
on the earth these days? Is He better known 
anywhere through our living, or through 
aught that we have done? It was said of one 
that he left a few flowers growing in this 
world after he was gone, which but for him 
would not have grown. Are there flowers of 
love growing in any heart, in any home, in 
any lowly neighborhood, which but for us 
would not have grown ? 

Jesus said that He glorified His Father by 
doing the work which had been given Him 
to do. We get at once this lesson that our 
work, like our Master's, is not anything we 
may find to do, anything we may choose to do 
— it is something which the Father has given 
us to do. Jesus was sent into the world on a 
divine mission. We may easily understand this 
of Him, for He was the Son of God. There 
was never another life like His. He was the 
world's Redeemer. It was fitting that the Son 
of God should have a work all His own 
assigned to Him. But we are so little, and the 
work we can do is so small! Can we speak 

[163] 



Wtyvi t^e ^ong 'Begin?! 

without irreverence of doing the work which 
our Father has given us to do ? Yes ; there is 
nothing haphazard in this world in which we 
are placed — our Father's world. God sent us 
here. He has a particular work which He 
wants each of us to do — a work which no 
other one in all the world can do. Our mis- 
sion here is to do this work that has been 
allotted to us. 

Jesus said that He had accomplished all that 
the Father had given Him to do. None of us 
can say this. How many duties have we only 
half done, skimping our work, slighting it, 
doing it negligently, indifferently? How 
many things have we left altogether undone, 
untouched, neglected? We have been selfish, 
we have been obstinate, we have been proud 
and conceited, we have had low ideals, we have 
been indolent, we have kept Christ out of 
much of our life. We have left great blanks 
where there should have been beautiful work. 
We have failed to be patient and kind. We 
have not gathered up the thorns and planted 
roses in their place. At whatever phase of our 

[164] 



tfinfj^fug our Wovt 



life we look we see that we have not accom- 
plished all that was given us to do. The most 
beautiful work done by anyone is flawed and 
incomplete. None of us have lived so nobly or 
wrought so finely as we meant to do. We have 
not the skill to fashion all the loveliness that 
our souls dream. No poet writes all the beauty 
of thought that shines before his eyes — his 
pen is not equal to the taking down of what 
his mind conceives, in all its radiancy and 
shining winsomeness. We all have our visions 
of life which we determine to work into real- 
ities, but with our best skill we fail and come 
short. The Master gives us the ideal, " Ye 
therefore shall be perfect, as your heavenly 
Father is perfect." That is the standard for 
all Christian living and doing. We dare not 
lower it by so much as a hair's-breadth. It 
must always be kept before us and we must 
ever strive to reach up to it. Yet we never 
can altogether reach it. It always keeps above 
us, however high we climb. 
Yet we should not be too greatly cast down 
by our shortcomings. If we have sincerely 

[165] 



Wtym tyz ^>ong ^Begins 

tried always to do our best, if we have been 
faithful in every duty, doing what we could, 
we need not grieve. God is pleased with our 
efforts and strivings, though we fail in accom- 
plishment. In the vestibule of a beautiful 
building, erected in memory of a noble and 
gentle woman, these lines are seen on a bronze 
tablet : 

" The good she tried to do shall stand as if 'twere 
done ; 
God finishes the work by noble souls begun" 

These words tell the story of every true and 
sincere life. We have great thoughts, desires 
that are born in heaven, intentions that are 
lofty and worthy. We do our work and it 
seems in our eyes most meagre and paltry. 
But we should not be discouraged. The good 
we sought to do, though we seem to have 
failed, shall stand at last as if we had done it. 
What noble souls begin, God finishes. 
They tell us that in nature nothing is ever 
really lost. Matter changes its form, but not 
a particle of it ever actually perishes. As it 

[166] 



tfinte^ng out Wotk 



is in nature, so it is in life — nothing ever is 
lost. Many of our efforts seem to yield no 
result. We sow our seed and it seems that there 
is no harvest. We speak our words of exhorta- 
tion, of encouragement, and so far as we can 
see no lives are helped, comforted, or strength- 
ened. We pour out our love in earnest prayers 
for those in whom we are interested, asking 
that they be kept from evil and led in right 
paths, and our prayers seem not to be an- 
swered. But we shall know at length that 
nothing we have done has really failed. Some 
day all the hopes and dreams we have sin- 
cerely and diligently sought to make true, 
we shall find wrought out in beauty and wait- 
ing for us among the things laid up and re- 
served for us. 

There are many ideals we find ourselves en- 
tirely unable to reach. They are too high for 
us. We strive to attain them, but our hands 
are too clumsy. We try to express the beauti- 
ful inspirations of love that the divine Spirit 
puts into our hearts, but the music is too 
celestial for our earthly lips to sing. We seek 

[167] 



to translate into the speech of earth the holy 
feelings and emotions which in our best moods 
struggle to express themselves, and we cannot 
get words sublime enough to interpret their 
meaning. But some day we shall find all these 
unfulfilled hopes, these unrealized longings, 
these unattained strivings, waiting in all their 
beauty. 

We need not grieve, then, over what seems 
to have been failure in our work. What the 
mothers have sought to put into their chil- 
dren's hearts and minds, though it seems as 
if they had wrought in vain ; what the teach- 
ers have tried to teach the scholars in their 
classes and schools, though nothing appears to 
have come of it all; what we have all longed 
to do for those we love, but have seemed to fail 
to do — none of these strivings, efforts, and 
longings have really failed ; nothing done for 
Christ ever fails. Some day we shall find the 
things we have sincerely tried to do standing 
amid heaven's finished achievements. 



" God finishes the work by noble souls begun 
[168] 



9f 



finding our 3£>or& 



It is always most encouraging to those who 
are living earnestly to know that they are 
not working alone — they are co-workers with 
God. We may put into His hands what we are 
doing, however poor and faulty it may be, 
and leave it with Him. Some day we shall see 
what He can do with our little fragments of 
effort, with our failures, even with our sins, 
when we have repented of them and put them 
into His hands. We should never forget as 
we look at our work that God is in it all, that 
it starts influences which shall sweep on into 
eternity, and that nothing true. and worthy 
in word or act of ours ever can perish. God 
uses little things, the smallest, the most in- 
significant, bringing out of them measureless 
results. 

Let us leave our work with God and ask Him 
to make it a garden-plat in which all the seeds 
we have sown shall grow into beautiful plants 
and trees, for the glory of God and the feed- 
ing of hungry hearts and lives. 



[169] 



W^at 2£oegt C^ou i^ere? 



[171] 



"/ have seen the vision of Thee, Christ ! 
Now what wilt Thou have me do? 
For the hardest work in all the world 
I offer Thee service true." 

"Go back, my child, to thy little cares ; 
Thou hast known them very long. 
Bear for Me yet a little while 
Thy feeling of bitter wrong." 

"Lord Christ, I am ready for martyrdom, 
For banishment, death, or pain". 

"Patiently still thine heartache hide, 
Sing at thy task again/ '.' 

"I am strong and eager and loving, Lord; 

I have courage rare to endure ! " 
"Are thine ears averse to slander, child P 

Is thine heart devout and pure ? 

"Glad art thou in thy neighbor's joy? 
Sufferest thou his need ? 
Ah! Then I know that thou hast seen 
The vision of Me indeed." 



[172] 



CHAPTER FOURTEENTH 



WW 2£oegt €^ou ^ere? 




T was Elijah. He was not 
where he should have been. 
There was a place that 
needed him and missed 
him. Noble man as he 
was, strong and true and 
faithful in the main, here for once he had 
failed God. It is a high privilege to be a 
man that God can trust, knowing that he will 
always be loyal and will do his duty without 
wavering. It is a great honor to be a man that 
people can trust. Yet this honor brings with 
it serious responsibility. It puts us under the 
most sacred obligation to have others regard 
us as wise, turning to us for advice and coun- 
sel in their perplexity ; or strong, coming to 
us for help in their weakness ; or safe, fleeing 
to us for refuge in their danger. 
No other motive for fidelity and truth makes 

[173] 



stronger appeal to our hearts than the con- 
sciousness that others are trusting us, taking 
us for guide and example, leaning on us, fol- 
lowing us. A man who occupies such a place 
among men needs to keep most careful watch 
upon himself. " What would happen," asked 
a visitor of a light-house keeper, " if your 
lamps should go out some night? " " Impos- 
sible ! M replied the old man, in startled tone. 
Then he went on to tell what would happen 
out on the sea where sailors trusted him and 
watched in the darkness for the shining of 
his lamp. Men who come to be trusted and 
turned to by others occupy a position of still 
greater responsibility. Suppose that they 
should fail! Suppose that they should falter 
in a time when many eyes are upon them, 
when many lives in stress are depending on 
them, what disasters to faith and confidence 
would result ! 

One writes to a man who had proved strong 
and brave and true, bold, yet gentle, telling 
what this friend had been to him, " a hero in 
a world of false ideals," then adding: 

[174] 



Btyat J^oegt C^ow fere? 

"/ would have you know this, know how dear 
My heart holds what you stand for, for I fear 
You might do something that you might not do, 
My dream's embodiment, if you but knew." 

There is not one of us to whom, in lesser or 
greater measure, this appeal may not be 
made. Somebody trusts us, believes in us, looks 
to us for strength. To somebody we stand as 
the very rock on which faith leans. If we 
should fail, the person's belief in Christ would 
be shaken, perhaps destroyed. How this con- 
sciousness should constrain and compel us to 
be true ! Remembering what we have confessed 
ourselves to be, what profession we have made, 
what we have already done to win the confi- 
dence and the love of others, and what people 
now expect to find in us, we dare not falter 
or prove false. The Master will follow us into 
our place of flight and disloyalty, and will 
ask us with startling directness, " What doest 
thou here? " 

The old prophet had fled from his duty. At 
Mount Horeb God met him with that search- 
ing question, " What doest thou here, Eli- 

[175] 



Wtytn ti&e ^>ong begins 

jah? " Every word in the question is em- 
phatic. Think who Elijah was — a great 
prophet. Recall his splendid faith and cour- 
age a little way back. One of the finest scenes 
of all history is the contest on Mount Carmel, 
when Eh jah stood, one man, against king, 
prophets, and nation. His whole story, up to 
the time of his flight, is one of noble achieve- 
ment and magnificent faith. It was strange, 
indeed, to find such a man as that away from 
his place, in flight. 

We are often called to stand in places of priv- 
ilege and honor. We confess Christ before 
men, we sit at His table, we speak His name, 
we do worthy things for Him, we stand loy- 
ally for Him in great crises. Then to-morrow 
something happens, and we fail Him. " What 
doest thou here ? " our Master asks in grief 
at finding us in some place where we ought 
not to be, or doing something we ought not 
to do. Those who have been honored by our 
Lord, who have been trained by Him, who 
have stood loyally for Him, yesterday or to- 
day, should never fail or disappoint Him. A 

[176] 



WW 3®ot$t €^ou l^ere? 

soldier, in the midst of a great battle, con- 
fessed that he would have fled from the field 
but for his character. He had a standard to 
live up to. If he had fled he would have dis- 
honored his own name. He dared not run 
away, and thus blot and stain his reputation 
as a soldier, for the stain of cowardice is 
ineffaceable. 

" What doest thou here? " The prophet had 
no duty there. He was in an empty wilderness. 
There was nothing there for him to do. There 
were no persons within reach to whom he could 
carry comfort or help. If the Lord had come 
to him when he was hiding by the brook 
Cherith, or when he was living quietly in the 
widow's home at Zarephath, and had asked 
him what he was doing there, he could have 
answered that he was there in obedience to a 
divine command. There may have been no 
specific work for him there, but he was doing 
the will of the Lord in his inactivity — his 
seeming uselessness was the divine plan for 
him just then. Sometimes God wants us away 
from the crowded thoroughfare, from scenes 

[177] 



Wtyn t^e ^>ong ^Begins 

of activity, in a quiet place, resting rather 
than toiling, waiting instead of running. Eli- 
jah had such days. Then he could have an- 
swered that the Lord had bidden him to wait. 
But he could not answer thus in the cave at 
Horeb. God had not sent him there. 
Horeb was a sacred place, too — the mountain 
of God. But it was not a sacred place to Eli- 
jah that day, because his duty was not there. 
Even the holiest place fails to be a place of 
blessing if we are not there in accordance with 
God's will. The church is God's house and is 
holy. But it is easy to conceive of cases when 
men and women would be sadly out of place 
in a church, even at a holy service. God's will 
for them is work, not worship. If a physician, 
for example, should leave a sick-room when 
his presence and skill were needed in some crit- 
ical case, when a life depended upon his in- 
stant watchfulness, and go to his church to 
attend a communion service, the Master would 
follow him, and would ask, " What doest thou 
here, Doctor? " He would be away from his 
duty. 

[178] 



Wtyat ^oegt €^ou l^ere? 

There may be times in the experience of any 
of us when it would not be our duty to go to 
a holy service, into our closet of prayer, or 
even to the Lord's table, because there is some 
duty outside which imperatively demands our 
attention, and which we may not neglect even 
in order to wait upon the Lord. We can meet 
our Lord only where He has appointed for us 
to meet Him, and sometimes this may be in 
the place of love's duty outside, in the thick 
of life's busy scenes, rather than in some sacred 
place of devotion. 

" What doest thou here? " Elijah was doing 
nothing; he was hiding. He had no duty, no 
errand, at Horeb. Far away was work not be- 
ing done at all, which he ought to have been 
doing that hour. The same question, asked 
so long ago of the prophet, is spoken to us 
every day. It is well that we should heed it, 
that we may not grow negligent concerning 
our duty. The Master has something for us 
to do each moment. There is always a place 
in which He would have us engaged. It may 
not be a conspicuous place; it may be nar- 

[179] 



Wfym t^e ^>ong "Begins 

row, small, uncongenial, or hard. It may not 
be a place for work at all — sometimes we are 
called apart to wait or to suffer. But what- 
ever the place may be in which the Master 
wants us, any day or hour, that is the best 
place in all the world for us to be, the only 
fit place, the only place of blessing. The duty 
there may seem insignificant, but nothing else 
we could do would be half so great, since it 
is God's will for us. It may seem a small mat- 
ter to speak a kind word or to do a trifling 
favor for another, but nothing is small when 
it is God's will, and the failure to do the least 
duty in any day will leave a flaw which can- 
not be mended. As Kipling puts it: 

One instant's toil to thee denied 
Stands all eternity's offence. 

Let us listen for the Master's call to duty. 
Let us be where He wants us to be, and do 
what He wants us to do, no matter how hard 
it may be. The cost of refusal will always be 
greater than that of obedience. Let us never 

[180] 



WW 5©oe$t C^ou i^ete? 

fail our Master when He depends on us for 
any service or task for Him. Let us never fail 
those who trust us and look to us for faith- 
fulness or for love's help. 



[181] 



Courage to Ifoe &oblv 



[183] 



"My soul is sailing through the sea, 
But the Past is heavy and hinder eth me ; 
The Past hath crusted, cumbrous shells 
That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells 

About my soul. 
The huge waves wash, the high waves roll, 
Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole, 

And hinder eth me from sailing I 

"Old Past, let go and drop i' the sea 
Till fathomless waters cover thee ! 
For I am living, but thou art dead; 
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead 

The day to find. 
Thy shells unbind ! Night comes behind, 
I needs must hurry with the wind 

And trim me best for sailing"* 



[184] 



CHAPTER FIFTEENTH 



Courage to Ltte $obty 




OOD wishes at the begin- 
ning of a year or on 
one's birthday are pleas- 
ant. They give us en- 
couragement and put new 
zest into our lives. After 
all, however, good wishes will not come true 
by the mere wishing. We make our own years, 
and whether they are happy and beautiful 
or not will depend on the kind of living we 
put into them. 

In going forward from year to year one of 
the secrets of a true life lies in cutting loose 
from the past. No year is good enough to be 
a standard for the one that comes after it. 
Each new year should be a step in the moun- 
tain-climb, lifting our feet a little higher, 
into clearer air and heavenlier atmosphere. 
Whatever our attainments or achievements 
may have been yesterday, they should be no- 

[185] 



bier and better to-day. Everyone's past is full 
of mistakes. The whitest pages are flecked 
with many a stain. There are things in our 
memory of which we are ashamed. There are 
failures, neglects, and sins in the best of us. 
We should leave these all behind us. We should 
count them as rubbish, which have no fit place 
in our new life for Christ, and which must be 
given up. 

Sometimes the past is discouraging. There has 
been in it so much that was wrong, so much 
of mistake, folly, or sin, that one is disheart- 
ened. But no past, however one has seemed 
to fail in it, should be accepted as defeat. The 
poet tells a beautiful story of the little birds 
whose nest had been ruined. As he walked 
among the trees in his garden after the storm, 
he found a torn nest lying on the ground, and 
began to brood sadly over it, pitying the birds 
whose home had thus been wrecked. But as he 
stood there and mused he heard a twittering 
and chattering over his head, and looking up 
he saw the birds busy building again their 
ruined nest, instead of grieving over its loss 

[186] 



Courage to Kbe $obl? 

and destruction. That is what we should do 
with the ruins we have made in our lives. We 
should not grieve and vex ourselves over them, 
nor spend a moment in regret which can avail 
nothing, but should straightway set to work 
to build again what our sin or our folly has 
destroyed. 

Robert Louis Stevenson closes one of his 
prayers with these words : " Help us with the 
grace of courage that we be none of us cast 
down when we sit lamenting over the ruins of 
our happiness. Touch us with the fire of Thine 
altar, that we may be up and doing, to re- 
build our city." These are good words — the 
grace of courage that we be not cast down 
by our failures, but that we may rise and 
cheerfully rebuild the ruins we have made in 
the past. Many people need this word when 
they come to their anniversaries. Things did 
not go well with them the last year. They 
spoiled their own happiness, perhaps an- 
other's happiness, too. Their fine resolves, 
perhaps neatly written out and signed a year 
ago, came to nothing. The ideals they set up, 

[187] 



Btyeu t^e ^>cmg ^Begins 

honestly meaning to attain them, remain un- 
reached to-day. There seems to have been only 
mistake, folly, and failure, and they stand 
and look back at nothing but ruins. Yet, how- 
ever sad it all really may be, they should 
not spend one hour in grieving over it. Tears 
will rebuild nothing that has been torn down. 
Time is only wasted that is spent in grieving. 
We should take a lesson from the birds and, 
forgetting all failure, begin at once to build 
anew. 

Brooding over the past, however foolish and 
ruinous it has been, is useless, only a waste 
of strength and opportunity. Nothing good 
ever comes of it. The Japanese have a 
proverb : 

" My skirt with tears is always wet, 
I have forgotten to forget." 

Too many people forget to forget. St. Paul's 
way was better. He forgot the things that 
were behind, whether mistakes or attainments, 
left them altogether in the past, and, stretch- 
ing forward to the things that were before, he 

[188] 



Courage to Jtitie $obty 

used all his energy and strength to attain and 
achieve them. 

But it is not enough merely to forget the past. 
We must come out of it unhurt by it if we 
are going to reach our best. The question con- 
cerning each one of us is, not what a particu- 
lar year brought to us of experience, but 
what we are bringing out of the year in our 
own lives. 

Some people are hurt by what goes on in their 
lives. Some are hurt by temptation — wounded, 
scarred, weakened. Some are hurt by sorrow, 
their vision of faith dimmed, their power of 
endurance lessened, their thought of God per- 
verted, their joy lost. Some are hurt by un- 
kind or unjust treatment received from others 
— cherishing resentment and growing bitter. 
Some are hurt by honors which come to them, 
by prosperity, by success. Their heads are 
turned, and they grow vain and self-conceited, 
losing the sweetness and simplicity of their 
quieter days. Some are hurt by disaster, by 
suffering, by poverty, by failure of hopes and 
plans. They become broken in spirit and dis- 

[189] 



couraged. The problem of true and beautiful 
living is, not to make a set of circumstances 
which shall serve us well, giving us comfort 
and ease, ministering to our pleasure; but, 
rather, the problem is, in whatever circum- 
stances we may be placed, to live worthily, 
nobly, victoriously, coming out unscathed, un- 
hurt, bearing not a stain, stronger, braver, 
and truer. 

A young man went through an experience of 
failure last year, losing all he had, the gath- 
erings and savings of years of toil and strug- 
gle. He came out with his hands empty, but 
clean. He had lost his money, but he had not 
lost his honor. His manliness is unspotted. He 
has courage to begin in the new. Another 
passed through the stress of a great sorrow 
last year, but his faith failed not. Another 
had a year of burden-bearing which almost 
crushed him, but to-day he is as brave, as 
trustful, as hopeful, as joyful, as he was be- 
fore he entered the year's testing. In all the 
world there is no one that can do us any harm 
but ourselves. If our heart remains true, if 

[190] 



Courage to Itoe &obly 

our faith continues steady, if our spirit is al- 
ways victorious, if we do not lose the song 
out of our hearts, the winds may blow as they 
will, and the waves roll as they will, but noth- 
ing can touch us in our refuge to do us any 
hurt. 

There is something else. Forgetting things of 
the past and coming out of our experiences 
unharmed, we must reach forward and lay 
hold upon new and better things. Some peo- 
ple never do. They have no enthusiasm for 
growth or advancement. They may be am- 
bitious for position, but they do not really 
strive for the prize of manhood. To be in a 
larger place this year than the year before 
is not promotion, unless, meanwhile, one has 
grown larger one's self and better. The only 
true advancement is in character. Each year 
should open new paths before us, paths lead- 
ing up higher. Nothing but the best things 
possible are worthy to be ideals for us. As 
Browning puts it: 

Endeavor to be good, and better still, 
And best. Success is naught — endeavor's all. 
[191] 



We should think a great deal of the possibili- 
ties of our lives. We should try to realize 
something of the dignity and glory in us. We 
are not worms. We are not made to grovel in 
the dust. Yet there are those who do grovel, 
who live as if they were only worms. Think 
of an angel coming down to earth and living 
as some men do in this world, scrambling in 
the dirt for money, prostituting all that is 
noble in their nature in self-indulgence. Yet 
we are higher than the angels — " but a little 
lower than God." Do we live as if we were so 
exalted in rank, in standing? 
Some of us are dimly aware of the great pos- 
sibilities in us, yet lack the energy and the 
earnestness necessary to release our impris- 
oned faculties and give them wing. One of the 
most wonderful stories of the conquest of 
difficulty is that of Helen Keller. She was 
blind, she was deaf, she could not speak. Her 
soul was hidden away in an impenetrable 
darkness. Yet she has overcome all these seem- 
ingly invincible obstacles and barriers and now 
stands in the ranks of intelligence and schol- 

[192] 



Courage to litoe $6bly 

arship. We have a glimpse of what goes on 
in her brave soul in such words as these: 
" Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation 
enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone and 
wait at life's shut gate. Beyond, there is life 
and music and sweet companionship; but I 
may not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the 
way. Fain would I question His imperious de- 
cree; for my heart is still undisciplined and 
passionate; but my tongue will not utter the 
bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and 
they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. 
Silence sits immense on my soul. Then comes 
hope with a smile and whispers, ' There is joy 
in self-forgetfulness.' So I try to make the 
light in others' eyes my sun, the music in 
others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' 
lips my happiness." 

Helen Keller, in one little sentence that she 
has written, discloses the secret of all that she 
has achieved and attained. This resolve, she 
herself says, has been the keynote of her life. 
" I resolved to regard as mere impertinences 
of fate the handicaps which were placed 

[193] 



about my life almost at the beginning. I re- 
solved that they should not dwarf my soul, 
but, rather, should be made to blossom, like 
Aaron's rod that budded." 
Some of us, with no such hindrances, with no 
such walls and barriers imprisoning our be- 
ing, with almost nothing in the way of the 
full development of our powers, with every- 
thing favorable thereto, have scarcely found 
our souls. We have eyes, but we see not the 
glory of God about us and above us. We have 
ears, but we hear not the music of divine love 
which sings all round us. It may not always 
be easy for us to learn to know the blessed 
things of God which fill all the world. But if 
we had half the eagerness that Helen Keller 
has shown in overcoming hindrances, half the 
energy, think how far we would be advanced 
to-day! We would then regard as mere im- 
pertinences of fate the handicaps which are 
about us, making it hard for us to reach out 
to find the best things of life. We would not 
allow our souls to be dwarfed by any hin- 
drances, but would struggle on until we are 

[194] 



Courage to lifce $obl? 



free from all shackles and restraints, and 
until we have grown into the full beauty of 
Christ. 

Sometimes young people are heard complain- 
ing of their condition or circumstances as ex- 
cuse for their making so little of their lives. 
Because they are poor, and no rich friend 
gives them money to help them, or because 
they have some physical infirmity or hin- 
drance, or because they have not had good 
early advantages, they give up and submit 
to stay where they are. The story of Helen 
Keller should shame all such yielding to the 
small inconveniences and obstacles that beset 
young people in ordinary conditions. They 
should regard their limitations and hindrances 
as only impertinences, to be bravely set aside 
by undismayed and unconquerable energy, or, 
rather, as barriers set not to obstruct the way 
but to nerve and stimulate them to heroic en- 
deavor before which all obstacles will vanish* 



[195] 



"(Bet leafce to WotH" 



[197] 



A little corner for my Lord, to till, 
A little chalice for my Lord, to fill, 
Some blessedness to know, of labor done, 
Some quiet resting at the set of sun — 
And comes God's peace to overbrim my soul; 
Life hath no fragments. 'Tis a perfect whole. 

Such grace as comes when hand and heart unite 
To finish every task as in His sight, 
Who stoops from heaven to give me, day by day, 
His smile of cheer upon my humble way. 
Such grace brings melody to flooding soul ; 
Life hath no fragments. ' Tis a perfect whole. 

— Margaret E. Sangster. 



[198] 



CHAPTER SIXTEENTH 



(( 



mt ttau to 3£otfc" 




ORK is the divine law for 
humanity. The man who 
does not work, if he be 
able to work, is failing 
God and also bringing 
blight upon his own life. 
Work is part of the constitution of our being. 
Health requires it. Idleness has curse in it. 
God works, and if we are to be like God we 
must work too. Idleness is most undivine. The 
unhappiest people in the world are those who 
do nothing. They have lost the balance of life. 
They are out of harmony with God and the 
universe. Work is the law of life and a prime 
secret of happiness and health. 
The work assigned by the Master is not the 
same for all. " To each one his work." We 
do not all have the same gifts and capacities. 
St. Paul illustrates this by a reference to 
the members of the human body. Each mem- 

[199] 



ber has its own use and function. Suppose all 
the members were eyes, how helpless would 
the body be ! Eyes are important, but we need 
ears and hands and feet as well. Sometimes 
people chafe because they can do so little; 
but the smallest member of the body is essen- 
tial. If it did not do its part, the whole 
bodily mechanism would suffer. And the least 
important member of human society has his 
place and his part to do, without the faith- 
ful doing of which there will be a blank in 
the great world's work. 

We need not envy any other's capacity for 
usefulness. It may be more brilliant than 
ours, may seem greater, of a higher grade. 
Its influence may reach out more widely. Our 
friend may be able to speak or sing to thou- 
sands, while our stumbling word or our un- 
musical voice may make no impression what- 
ever. Sometimes persons occupying small 
fields in Christian work grow discontented 
and seek something larger. But when we re- 
member that it is the Master Himself who al- 
lots our work to us and assigns our place, we 

[200] 



"(0et leafce to WovK" 

may be sure that there is no mistake. Arch- 
bishop Trench's lines are suggestive : 

Thou earnest not to thy place by accident ; 
It is the very place God meant for thee ; 
And shouldst thou there small scope for action 

see. 
Do not for this give room for discontent ; 
Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent 
In idly dreaming how thou mightest be, 
In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free 
From outward hindrance or impediment : 
For presently this hindrance thou shalt find 
That without which all goodness were a task 
So slight that virtue never could grow strong. 

Then we do not know what place is really nar- 
row or of little importance, or what work is 
really small in its value to Christ and the 
world. It may be that the seemingly almost 
useless task assigned to us some day or some 
year is of immeasurable importance to the 
kingdom of Christ. In preparing for a great 
battle, one of the most able and successful 
generals was assigned by the commander to 
the guarding of a certain bridge which seemed 

[201] 



entirely out of the field of conflict. The gen- 
eral chafed and thought himself dishonored in 
being thus kept out of the battle in which 
other officers were leading their men to im- 
portant victories. He heard the noise of the 
engagement far away and fretted at being 
kept in his obscure place, with his command 
absolutely idle. But at length the line of 
battle swerved and moved toward him. The 
enemy was falling back, and the bridge he was 
guarding became the very key to the situa- 
tion. So it came about that this brave and 
valiant soldier was in the end the hero of the 
battle. The commander had foreseen the im- 
portance of this bridge and had assigned his 
ablest general to defend it. 
We do not know the importance in the Mas- 
ter's eye of the obscure position we are set to 
occupy or of the inconspicuous work we are 
set to do. It may be the vital element in some 
great providential movement. Certainly, at 
least, we can trust our Master's wisdom in our 
assignment. He knows why He wants us at 
this obscure point, why He gives us this little 

[202] 



«<&zt Heafce to Wotk" 

task. Let us do the small duty just as faith- 
fully, as carefully, as skilfully as if we were 
working in the eye of the whole world. Some 
day we shall know that we were assigned to 
the right place and to the right work. 

" Just where you stand in the conflict. 

There is your place ! 
Just where you think you are useless, 

Hide not your face ; 
God placed you there for a purpose. 

Whatever it may be; 
Know he has chosen you for it, 

Work loyally." 

Our work for Christ is more far-reaching 
than we dream. In the Master's work, charac- 
ter is important. We must be good before we 
can do good. There is a tremendous power 
in a strong and true personality. A writer 
says, " The most searching and influential 
power that issues from any human life is that 
of which the person himself is largely uncon- 
scious. It flows from him in every form of 
occupation, in every relationship, in rest or 
in work, in silence or in speech, at home or 

[203] 



abroad. There are hosts of men and women 
who are healers, teachers, and helpers, almost 
without being conscious of it. Light shines 
from them, and healing flows from them, at 
times when they are utterly unaware that the 
hem of their garment is being touched. The 
real test of the possession of the highest power 
of character and the most perfect devotion to 
the noblest things in life is not the quality 
of the direct touch — it is the presence of virtue 
even in the hem of the garment." 
Those who would do the Master's work ac- 
ceptably, worthily, should give, therefore, the 
most careful heed to their personality. The 
wise man says, " Dead flies cause the oil of the 
perfumer to send forth an evil odor; so doth 
a little folly outweigh wisdom and honor." 
In nothing is this better illustrated than in 
the power of personal influence. There are 
men who are good, with right principles, 
honest, true, upright, benevolent, earnest, 
strenuous in good work, but who have little 
faults of temper, of disposition, of manner; 
little marring habits, untidiness, carelessness 

[204] 



«<Btt JLeafce to Wot*" 

in speech, neglect in keeping promises; 
things in their business or social life which 
affect the purity or honor of their name ; dis- 
agreeableness or unsavoriness in their rela- 
tions with others — dead flies which cause the 
oil of their influence to send forth an evil 
odor. 

No one can tell another what his particular 
work for Christ is. The kinds of work are as 
many as the persons are. "To each one his 
work." No two of us have precisely the same 
capacities, and, therefore, no two have pre- 
cisely the same tasks assigned. How to find 
our own work in life is sometimes a perplex- 
ing question. For one thing, however, we may 
know that it is always something near at 
hand. It is never far away, never hard to find. 
It is said in Nehemiah, in the story of the re- 
building of the walls of Jerusalem, that each 
person built over against his own door. An 
artist wished to leave behind him some noble 
work which would make him famous for all 
time. Despising the common clay which was 
easily found, in which he had always wrought 

[205] 



as an apprentice, he went far and near in 
search of some fine material fit for the beau- 
tiful form he wished to fashion. After jour- 
neying over all lands in vain quest for what 
he wanted, he came home at length, weary 
and disappointed, to find in the clay by his 
own doorstep that from which he moulded the 
masterpiece of his dream. 
Men and women are forever making the same 
mistake. They long to do some beautiful thing 
for Christ, but never think for a moment that 
they can do it in the things of the common 
days, while really the opportunity comes to 
them every day in the duties that seem trivial 
and commonplace. The common tasks of our 
everydays furnish us the elements which go 
to make the divinest deeds. Just to be kind to 
a poor woman, to a sick man, or to a little 
child, to visit a stranger, to feed one who is 
hungry, is fit work for the Son of God to do. 
We may always seek our work for the Master 
close to our hand. We may begin with the 
homeliest tasks that await us as we go out any 
morning and then go on doing always the next 

[206] 



"d&et leafce to T&wfo" 

thing, however simple it may be. That is the 
way God's will is made known to us. One 
act prepares for another and leads to it. Then 
some day we shall find that the common kind- 
nesses of the passing days are transmuted by 
divine grace into gems for the crown of glory 
for our heads. 

We must not make the mistake of thinking 
that Christian work consists merely in devo- 
tions and acts of worship. A minister preached 
one day about heaven, and his sermon was 
greatly enjoyed by his people. Next morning 
a wealthy member of the church met the pas- 
tor and spoke warmly of the discourse. " That 
was a good sermon about heaven," he said. 
" But you didn't tell us where heaven is." 
" Oh," said the minister, " I can tell you now. 
Do you see yonder hill-top ? In a cottage there, 
is a member of our church. She is sick in one 
bed, and her two children are sick in another 
bed. I have just come from her house. There 
is not a lump of coal, nor a stick of wood, 
nor a loaf of bread, nor any flour in that 
house. If you will go down town and buy 

[207] 



some provisions and some coal, and send them 
to that home, and then go yourself to the 
house and read the Twenty-third Psalm be- 
side the woman's sick-bed, and kneel and pray 
with her, you will know where heaven is." 
Next morning the man met his pastor again, 
and said, " You were right — I found heaven." 
In the place of worship we learn of heaven's 
joy and happiness; out in the fields of need 
we find heaven in service of love. 
It makes our work very sacred to remember 
that it is the Master who assigns it to us. 
Easy or hardj it is what He gives us to 
do. It must be right, therefore, for He is 
perfect in wisdom and perfect in love. Some- 
times the Master lays us aside, and then we 
find our duty not in the active service but in 
the quiet waiting. But whether it is to lie 
still or to work — He knows how we can best 
honor God, fulfil the end of our existence, 
and sweeten and enrich the world in which 
we live. 



[208] 



9Jnto tye %>tmt 



[209] 



"Oh, souls which sit in upper air, 
Longing for heavenly sight, 
Glimpses of truth all fleeting-fair, 

Set in unearthly light ; 
Is there no knocking heard below, 
For which you should arise and go, 
Leaving the vision, and again 
Bearing its message unto men f 

"Sordid the world were vision not, 
But fruitless were your stay ; 
So, having seen the sight, and got 

The message, haste away. 
Though pure and bright thy higher air, 
And hot the street and dull the stair, 
Still get thee down, for who shall know 
But His the Lord who knocks below V\ 



[210] 



CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH 



91nto t^e desert 




HILIP, the Deacon, was en- 
gaged in a great work 
in the city of Samaria, 
when suddenly an angel 
came to him and bade him 
go to the south, into a 
desert region. It seemed a strange command, 
but Philip instantly obeyed. " He arose and 
went." This is a fine example of the kind of 
obedience the Master wants in all His fol- 
lowers. There must be no asking "Why?" 
or " How? " no postponing of obedience. 
Philip was popular and successful in Samaria. 
People thronged to hear him preach. He was 
doing a great work and was absorbed in it. 
We can imagine him, when he heard the an- 
gel's bidding that he should leave the city 
and go away into a desolate place, where no- 
body lived — we can imagine him looking into 

[211] 



the messenger's face and asking, "Why?" 
But not thus did he answer. It was the Mas- 
ter's work he was doing, and the Master knew 
where He wanted him. 

Any of us may be called any day to go out 
from our ease and comfort into some way 
which is desert. No reason will be given. We 
shall not be told what the work is that needs 
us and awaits us there. It will be a self-denial 
and a sacrifice for us to obey. But we have 
nothing whatever to do with the reasons 
for the call, or with its ease or comfort. 
We may think the work we are doing now 
still needs us, that it would be destructive 
to it for us to lay it down or pass it to 
other and untrained hands. But we are not 
to raise any question. All is the Master's 
work, that in Samaria where now our hands 
are so full and where God is blessing us so 
abundantly, and that out on the desert road 
which needs us and is awaiting our coming. 
If the Master says, " To the desert," He 
knows why He wants us there. Somebody is 
waiting there in the desert for our coming. 

[212] 



3Jttto tlje %>tmt 



We have nothing to do with the question of 
comparative need here and there. Sometimes 
men are heard asking about the relative im- 
portance of certain fields. We do not know 
what fields are most important. No one would 
have said that the desert way toward Gaza 
was a more important place for Philip just 
then than the crowded city of Samaria. Yet 
in the Master's eye that was true. Jesus 
needed His faithful servant and co-worker to 
explain a passage of Scripture to a per- 
plexed man journeying that way. We do 
not know where He may need us to-morrow. 
We must be ready to go wherever He would 
have us go. 

" 'Tis written that the serving angels stand 
Beside God's throne, ten myriads on each hand, 
Waiting, with wings outstretched and watchful 

eyes, 
To do their Master's heavenly embassies. 
Quicker than thought His high commands they 

read, 
Swifter than light to execute them speed, 
Bearing the word of power from star to star — 
Some hither and some thither, near and far. 79 
[213] 



The Master may not always call us away 
from activity to other activities. Sometimes 
He calls His servants out of the work alto- 
gether, to rest awhile. Activity is not the 
only kind of service which fulfils God's will. 
" They also serve who only stand and wait," 
wrote blind Milton. Not always, however, do 
we accept the Master's guidance with submis- 
sion and joy when He calls us away from the 
white fields to the desert. We think we can- 
not be spared from the place of service. A 
Christian woman was lamenting her illness, 
which had kept her away for a long season 
from her loved work. There were shut-ins she 
had been visiting every month — she could not 
visit these any more. There was her class in 
the Sunday-school, in which she was deeply 
interested. She had hoped to lead some of 
them to Christ this winter. There were sor- 
rowing neighbors and friends to whom she 
wanted to go with sympathy and comfort. 
She had many interests of Christ's kingdom 
on her heart to which she wished to devote 
these days. But instead of her doing all this 

[214] 



3Into tye &>mtt 



needed and blessed work for her Master, these 
services of love which her heart prompted, the' 
angel met her and said, " Arise, and go tow- 
ard the south unto the way that goeth down 
from Jerusalem unto Gaza: the same is des- 
ert." So she found herself called away from 
useful toil and loving service to what seemed 
idleness, wasted time, in a sick-room. 
The experience is not unusual. But when thus 
called apart, do we obey as cheerfully as 
Philip did? " He arose and went." Rest is not 
always idleness. Inactivity is not always use- 
lessness. The sick-room or the invalid's chair 
is not always desert. Philip found work, 
blessed, far-reaching work, in the desolate 
place where he was sent. Our place of retire- 
ment may be a very garden of God to us. 
We may find a table spread with heaven's 
food for us in the wilderness. 
We are in this world not only to do all the 
good we can — to comfort others, to help peo- 
ple over hard places, to plant churches, to do 
mission work — we are here to grow into the 
beauty of Christ, we are here to do the will 

[215] 



of God. The desert may be to us a holier, 
more fruitful, place than Samaria. We know 
at least that wherever the Master sends us 
any day is the best place in the world for 
us that day, the nearest heaven of all places 
on the earth. We are Christ's, to be used by 
Him, when, where, and how He will use us, 
or to be laid aside, if that is His will for us. 
George Klingle writes: 

A little tool am I; just one within His hand; 

Just His to choose, 

And His to use ; 
Shaped out at His command. 

If He should lay me down, perhaps I might be 
sad, 

And wonder why 
He put me by, 
And never more be glad. 

Yet I would surely know, whatever He might 
do — 

However choose 

His tool to use — 
His love was strong and true. 

[216] 



gjnto tfje ?®tmt 



Just looking in His face, although my heart 
might break, 

I could but know 
He loved me so 
There could be no mistake. 

It is interesting to follow Philip as he leaves 
Samaria and journeys along toward Gaza. It 
is not unlikely that he wondered as he went on 
what the important errand was on which he 
had been sent. He did not know what duty was 
waiting for him. He knew he had been sent 
into the desert for some purpose, and so he 
went on, cheerful, watching and ready. At 
length he saw a chariot driving along the 
highway. " Go near, and join thyself to this 
chariot," said a gentle voice. So Philip had 
found his work. The rich man in the chariot 
was in need of his help. He was reading the 
fifty-third chapter of Isaiah, and he could not 
understand who the person was of whom such 
strange things were said. Philip understood, 
and showed the traveller Jesus pictured in the 
words. 

We do not know any morning as we go out 

[217] 



what the Master's errand for us that day will 
be. We go with sealed orders. But have you 
ever thought that you are intrusted with a 
message from God for someone, or for many, 
each day? To-morrow you will meet some fel- 
low-pilgrim who has a question he cannot an- 
swer, one that is sorely troubling him. God 
made your paths to cross — yours and his — 
just that you might answer his question for 
him. 

There is no chance in this world. Jesus said 
that God numbers the very hairs of our heads. 
This means that the smallest things in our 
lives, the least important incidents, are in- 
cluded in our Father's plan, in His care of us. 
In an old English poet, not much read now, is 
this line: 

"It chanced— Eternal God that chance did guide". 

The meeting of Philip and the nobleman that 
day in the desert was chance, as men say, but 
we know that Eternal God that chance did 
truly guide. We see it in the story. God sent 
Philip to that desolate region that he might 

[218] 



9Jnto t^e J^mvt 



meet the Queen's treasurer and carry a bless- 
ing to him. We see the secret working of God 
in this one case. May we not believe that the 
same divine love and wisdom work continually 
in what seem the chance meetings of ourselves 
and others? It is always true that all the ten 
thousand crossings and touchings of human 
paths each day have a divine purpose in them. 
You have an errand to every person you meet. 
You are sent to him with comfort, cheer, en- 
couragement, sympathy, help, and you will 
fail your Master if you do not deliver your 
message or impart your comfort or minister 
your good. 

We should look upon everyone we meet in 
any of the tangled paths of our intercourse 
and association with men, as a brother to 
whom God has sent us with something the 
other greatly needs. If we realized this, our 
heart would go out to him in love and inter- 
est, eager to be a friend to him, to feed his 
heart hunger, to make him braver, stronger, 
happier, a better man. We owe something to 
him — this man we meet. We owe him our love. 

[219] 



Wtym t^e ^>ong Begins 

He needs us. We have something which God 
gave us to take to him. 

The errand of Philip to this man in the desert 
was of the highest kind. It is a good thing 
to give a hungry man bread or a thirsty man 
a cup of water. The Good Samaritan did a 
noble service to the wounded man bleeding to 
death by the wayside, in providing for his 
care. It is a great thing when we are faithful 
in giving physical and temporal help. But 
there is a higher way of blessing others. 
When God sends you to those who are poor, 
in need, or suffering, do not put them off with 
money alone — if you do they will starve. Give 
them something of yourself; give them hu- 
man interest, sympathy, love, kindness, some- 
thing that will feed their hearts as well as 
put coal on their fire or bread on their table. 
Give them also the bread of life. 



[220] 



pg I3t*tljer aijso 



[221 ] 



" The look of sympathy, the gentle word 
Spoken so low that only angels heard, 
The secret act of pure self-sacrifice 
Unseen by man, but marked by angel eyes — 
These are not lost ! 

11 The kindly plans devised for others' good, 
So seldom guessed, so little understood, 
The quiet, steadfast love which strove to win 
Some wanderer from the woeful ways of sin — 
These are not lost!" 



[222] 



CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH 



$(0 TStOtyZV ai$0 




HE beloved disciple makes it 
very clear that if we love 
God, we will love people, 
too. Among other things 
he says, " This command- 
ment have we from Him, 
that he who loveth God love his brother 
also." We may not separate the two loves; 
we must keep them together. They are in- 
separably united. The same writer says, also, 
" He that loveth not his brother whom he hath 
seen, cannot love God, whom he hath not 
seen." So we need not profess to love God un- 
less, at the same time, we love our brother, 
our neighbor. We love God just as much as 
we love people — just as much, and not a whit 
more. 

John was the apostle of love. In tradition it 
is told that when the great congregation at 
Ephesus was gathered on Sunday mornings, 

[223] 



Wtym t^e ^>ong "Begins 

there would be a strange hush — they were 
waiting for someone. Then presently an old 
man would be carried in by younger men. His 
hair and beard were white as snow. His eyes 
shone with a soft, gentle light. After a mo- 
ment's pause he would lift up his feeble hand 
and speak in low, tremulous words, " Little 
children, love one another." This was St. 
John's one great message to the friends of his 
Master. No wonder we find so many echoes of 
this message in his letters. He had leaned 
upon Christ's breast and had absorbed Christ's 
spirit; hence he was always beseeching the 
Master's friends to love each other. Really, 
there is no other lesson to learn. It is the les- 
son which takes in all others. 
We sometimes get the impression that loving 
God is the only essential thing in religion. 
So it is, in a sense. If we do not love God, we 
are not Christians. " Thou shalt love the Lord 
thy God with all thy heart," is the first and 
great commandment. Nothing comes before 
first, and nothing can get before this — noth- 
ing can take its place. The second command- 

[224] 



f te ^otye* aigo 



ment is, " Thou shalt love thy neighbor " ; but 
you cannot get to the second until you have 
taken in the first. The essential thing in re- 
ligion is loving God, loving God in Jesus 
Christ. Religion begins here. A gospel of love 
for men, with no antecedent love for God, is 
a gospel without life. 

But the second commandment must always fol- 
low the first. Both are essential. As love for 
man counts for nothing if there be not first 
love for God, so love for God, if there be no 
love for man, is not genuine. The fountain of 
religion is always the love of God in us. But 
if there be the fountain, the well of water 
springing up in us, there will be also streams 
of water pouring out, rivers flowing forth, to 
cheer, refresh, and bless the land. 

While I love my God the most, I deem 
That I can never love you overmuch : 
I love Him more, so let me love you, too. 
Yea, as I understand it, love is such, 
I cannot love you if I love not Him ; 
I cannot love Him if I love not you. 

Love is not a mere sentiment. It does not ex- 
haust itself in mere self-pleasing. The first im- 

[225] 



Wtym ttye ^>ona ^Begins 

pulse of a heart into which the love of Christ 
has come is a desire to do good or bear good 
to others. As soon as Andrew and John had 
found the Messiah, they hastened out to find 
their brothers, and brought them to Jesus. 
They did not stay all night with their new- 
found Friend, their hearts thrilling with the 
rapture of companionship with Him. That 
would have been a delight. But love is never 
selfish. It thinks always of others before itself. 
So the two men hurried away from the joy 
of their new friendship, to bring others to 
share it. That is always the result of finding 
Christ. It puts a new spirit within one. It 
changes the centre of one's life. Self is for- 
gotten, and everyone about us, even the most 
unlovable, becomes interesting to us. We see 
in every person one to whom we owe some- 
thing, to whom we are debtor. The person 
may be far below us as this world rates people, 
but to the lowliest our love will go out, and 
the lowlier the person the gentler will be the 
expression of the love. 

A plain-spoken woman said to her daughter 

[226] 



f te Tstotytv aijso 



who had been rude to a servant, " My dear, 
if you haven't enough kindness in you to go 
round, you must save it up for those you con- 
sider beneath you. Your superiors can do very 
well without it, but I insist that you shall be 
kind to those who need it most." 
The first thing the love of Christ does is to 
sweeten all the life, the disposition, the spirit, 
the temper, the manners. One writes of a 
sweetbrier life. A little group of girls were 
together one rainy afternoon. One of them 
opened the door for a moment, and a wave of 
wet, green, growing things poured into the 
room. The girl at the door turned and said 
to the others, " Do you smell the sweetbrier 
down by the gate? It is always fragrant, but 
never so fragrant as in the rain." One of the 
girls said impulsively that this reminded her 
of her aunt. When asked to explain, she said, 
" Why, you see, there are ever so many roses 
that are fragrant — the roses themselves, I 
mean — -but the sweetbrier is the only one 
whose leaves also are fragrant. That is why 
it makes me think of my aunt, because every- 

[227] 



thing about her, everything she does, not the 
large things only, but all the common, every- 
day things — the leaves, as well as the blos- 
soms — have something beautiful in them. 
There is something in her spirit, a gentle- 
ness, a thoughtfulness, a kindliness, a gra- 
ciousness, that goes out in everything she does, 
in every word she speaks, in every influence 
that breathes out from her life." 
There are such people in every community — 
sweetbrier Christians — always gracious and 
gentle. Lowell writes of such a woman: 

Blessing she is. God made her so, 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her, noiseless as the snow : 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 

Love for our brother should make us interested 
in all that concerns him. Love makes us his 
keeper, the caretaker of his life. Then the 
word brother is a large one. In a special sense 
it refers to all our fellow-Christians. All who 
love Christ are brethren. Every church should 
be a family. The members sit together at the 

[228] 



$f* iBtotytv aijso 



communion. They worship together at the 
same throne of grace. They should live to- 
gether in sweet affectionateness. If one has a 
burden, the other should share it. If one is 
suffering, the others should sympathize with 
him and stand close to him in fellow-feeling. 
If one is in need, the others should share their 
plenty with his lack. The members of a church 
should live together as a larger household. 
They should be patient with each other, char- 
itable each toward the faults and failings of 
the others, seeking always each other's good 
in all ways. They should live and work to- 
gether in love, none seeking the pre-eminence 
or claiming his own way, but each in honor 
preferring the others. 

One of the fine things said by King Lemuel 
of the good woman is* " The law of kindness 
"is on her tongue." Think how it would change 
the conversation of homes, parlors, offices, and 
social circles if the law of kindness were al- 
ways on our tongues — no harsh words, no idle 
or malicious gossip, no criticisms, no bitter or 
censorious words. Then not only in the speech 

[229] 



Wtym tyz ^ong ^Begins 

but in the conduct should kindness be the law. 
Barrie proposed " a new rule of life — always 
to try to be a little kinder than is necessary." 
That is what Jesus meant when He said, 
" Whosoever shall compel thee to go one mile, 
go with him two." The church that would ful- 
fil its mission in the world must get something 
of this largeness of love into the daily lives of 
its people. It must not always calculate the 
exact measure and give just what is due; it 
must pour out love abundantly without re- 
serve. It must be ready to do more than is re- 
quired, to give without measure, to go beyond 
the letter of the law in kindness, in obliging- 
ness, in thoughtfulness, in patience and for- 
bearance, in all service and helpfulness. 
But while Christian people compose the inner 
circle of a Christian's brotherhood, there is a 
wider circle which includes all men. " God hath 
made of one blood all nations of men to dwell 
on the face of the earth." " Thou shalt love 
thy neighbor," and our neighbor is the man 
who needs us. We are not to narrow our 
thought down to ourselves and a little circle 

[230] 



[$ QBrot^er aigo 



of good people about us and say that we have 
no responsibility for any others, that another 
man's needs and troubles are not our affair, 
especially if he is not a Christian man. A lit- 
tle girl was overheard finishing her evening 
prayer with these unusual words : " I saw a 
poor little girl on the street to-day — hungry, 
cold, and barefoot. But it's none of our busi- 
ness — is it, God? " Yes, it is our business. The 
people we know of who are suffering, in need, 
in danger, in the meshes of temptation, are 
our brothers for whom Christ died. We may 
not turn them away from us when they are 
hungry or in need of relief of any kind. We 
should never forget the King's words in the 
judgment: "I was hungry, and ye did not 
give Me to eat ; I was thirsty, and ye gave Me 
no drink ; I was a stranger, and ye took Me 
not in. . . Inasmuch as ye did it not 

unto these least, ye did it not unto Me." 
There are greater, sorer needs than those 
which are physical. There are people about 
us, our brothers, too, who go hungry ofttimes. 
We do not know what walls sometimes hide 

[231 ] 



of physical need and suffering. Yet there are 
needs in which our brothers suffer which are 
greater far, deeper and sadder, than the needs 
of poverty, pain, distress, or sickness. While 
Jesus was touched by the people's hunger and 
suffering, it was their spiritual condition that 
stirred his compassion most profoundly. 
All about us these days are those whose con- 
dition appeals to the compassion of Christ. 
They are our brothers, too. We say we love 
God — that His love thrills our hearts. Is the 
condition of those about us, who know not 
God, any of our business? If we love God, 
we must love our brother also. And it is not 
enough to be kind, to do gentle things, to 
give bread to the hungry, to visit the sick, to 
show a brother's sympathy in trouble. These 
ministries, however beautiful they may be, do 
not reach the deepest need. Our love must give 
the best, and the best is Christ Himself. 



[232] 



C^e €>oot of tije Ointment 



[233] 



Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

— Tennyson. 



[234] 



CHAPTER NINETEENTH 



C^e flDoo? of t^e flDtntment 




T was Mary of Bethany 
whose ointment thus filled 
the house with its odors. 
The first reference in the 
Bible to perfume is in a 
figure of speech which de- 
scribes God's pleasure in men's offerings. 
After leaving the ark Noah built an altar and 
offered sacrifices, and the record says that 
" Jehovah smelled a sweet savor." The smoke 
of the offering as it ascended toward heaven 
was fragrant to God. 

In the ancient tabernacle the golden altar was 
for the offering of incense. A special prescrip- 
tion was given for this incense. This com- 
pound, carefully prepared by the apothe- 
cary's art, when cast upon the fire, sent forth 
rich perfume which filled all the place. In- 
cense was the symbol of prayer. Prayer is 
fragrant to God. A beautiful rabbinical le- 

[235] 



Wtyn t^e £>ong begins 

gend, put into verse by Longfellow, tells of 
an angel who is called the angel of prayer. 
At the outermost gates of the City Celestial 
this angel stands, ever " listening breathless 
to sounds that ascend from below," 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 
From the souls that entreat and implore 

In the fervor and passion of prayer : 
From the hearts that are broken with losses 
And weary with dragging the crosses 

Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands. 
And they change into flowers in his hands, 

Into garlands of purple and red ; 
And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
Through the streets of the City Immortal 

Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 

It is only a legend, but its teaching is very 
beautiful. Prayers when they reach heaven 
become fragrant roses, pouring out their holy 
perfume before God. As from gardens of 
flowers blooming on the earth perfume rises, 
sweetening all the air, so from homes and 
hearts of praying ones, God's children in this 

[236] 



C^e €>Dor of t^e flDintment 

world, there rises continually to God holy in- 
cense, a pure offering, fragrant odor. God 
smells a sweet savor when we pray believingly, 
sincerely, adoringly, with love. 
Perfume stands also in the Scriptures as a 
symbol of personal influence. " Thy name is as 
ointment poured forth." Influence is some- 
thing which distils from every life. It cannot 
be weighed, nor photographed, nor measured, 
and yet it is the most real thing about a man. 
It gathers unto itself all that belongs to a 
life. The whole of one's biography is con- 
densed into it. A baby has no influence be- 
cause, as yet, it has no personality. Its name 
stands for nothing. The baby has no charac- 
ter as yet. It has done nothing to give its name 
any meaning or any distinction. But as it 
grows into boyhood and then into manhood, 
"the name comes to mean something. There 
gathers into it all that there is in the life. 
The acts, the dispositions, the impressions left 
by the boy's conduct, his behavior, his spirit, 
his treatment of others, the way he meets his 
duties, the temper he reveals in contact with 

[237] 



other men — all these expressions of the char- 
acter grow into the name. If he is selfish, sor- 
did, false, unkind, cruel, these qualities give 
tone to the name wherever it is known. If he 
has lived worthily, unselfishly, helpfully, hon- 
orably, purely, his influence is in accordance 
with the life he has lived and the personality 
he has attained. 

Influence is the composite of all one's life. 
From acres of flowers men extract the per- 
fume, and it is all put into a little vial which 
contains but an ounce or two. For instance, it 
is said that a hundred and fifty pounds of 
rose-leaves yield less than an ounce of the 
attar of roses. So from years of life, with all 
its acts and words and expressions, its re- 
vealings of character and disposition, all 
the emanations of personality, results that 
mysterious thing which we call a man's in- 
fluence. 

There are some good people of whom it would 
be impossible to write a biography worth 
reading. They have done nothing striking, 
nothing that would be considered of sufficient 

[238] 



%X)t £DDor of ti&e flDtntment 

value or interest to put into a book. They have 
lived plain, simple, obscure lives, out of the 
world's sight for the most part. Yet they have 
gone about doing good continually. Every 
day they have left behind them a story of 
kindness shown, of help and cheer given^ of 
gentle impressions made, of inspirations im- 
parted to others' lives. In their quiet, incon- 
spicuous way they have done more to touch 
the lives of others with good than many who 
are always in the public eye. As God looks 
down upon them their lives are most fruitful 
of good. The world is sweeter because they 
have lived in it and passed through it. Yet 
their life is absolutely uneventful. There is 
not a single incident in it picturesque enough 
to make an interesting newspaper paragraph. 
That which makes their lives worth while to 
'God and men is the gentle aroma which pours 
forth from their personality, like perfume 
from a garden of roses. 
The odor of Mary's ointment was a beautiful 
emblem of Mary's life. It is well to look for 
the secret of the influence which this simple 

[239] 



village maiden attained in the world. She was 
not an active follower of Christ save in her 
own home and in her own quiet daily life. She 
did not leave all and go with Him, as some 
other women did. Her name is not connected, 
even in tradition, with anything startling or 
great. What was the secret of Mary's im- 
mortal influence? The first glimpse we have 
of her we see her sitting at the Master's feet 
as a learner. Into her heart she received the 
words of the Master, and these words were life 
to her. Like a handful of spices they fell into 
her heart and transformed her lif e into radi- 
ant beauty. We do not know anything about 
her personal appearance, whether she was 
beautiful or not. There is no indication that 
she was clever, that she was brilliant, that she 
was in any way specially attractive. But the 
words of Christ in her life made it beautiful 
with all divine beauty. 

There is a story of one who in her early days 
was said to be the homeliest girl in the village 
where she lived. But instead of being disheart- 
ened by her lack of personal beauty, she said 

[240] 



C^e £Dtior of t^e Ointment 

to herself, " I will make my life so beautiful 
that people will love me in spite of my ugly 
features." So she set herself to work, under 
the training of Christ, to grow into loveliness 
of spirit. She gave up her whole heart to the 
divine love. She let Christ into her whole be- 
ing. She took lessons from Christ, lessons of 
gentleness, patience, thought fulness, kindness, 
humility, graciousness. She sought every op- 
portunity to do good to others. If there was 
trouble in any home, sorrow or need or want, 
she was sure to be there with her gentle min- 
istries. If anyone was sick or if any were in 
sorrow, she found her way to their doors with 
sympathy and thoughtful love. In due time 
she became known everywhere as the angel of 
the village. Her face never grew any more 
beautiful save as beneath its homeliness a gen- 
tle radiance of peace and love shone. But her 
life became so like Christ's, she was such a 
minister of good to everyone, her disposition 
was so sweet, her life was so beautiful, that 
people forgot that she was homely in feature 
and loved her because they saw Christ in her. 

[241 ] 



Wtyn tyt ^ong 'Begins 

Few women of her generation have left a 
deeper impression upon the world than she 
did. Her village, indeed the whole Christian 
community, was filled with the odor of her 
sweet life. 

Girlhood has almost infinite possibilities. Per- 
sonal beauty may have its charm, but personal 
beauty leaves no perfume in the world, unless 
there be a life back of it which corresponds to 
it. There are beautiful girls in every commu- 
nity who do not fill any house with the odor 
of their lives, They are selfish, vain, thought- 
less, perhaps irreverent, sometimes proud, even 
trivial in their lives. The only way a young 
woman can repeat Mary's story and fill her 
neighborhood, or even her own home, with the 
sweetness of her life, is to make it truly a 
Christ-like life. She must sit at Christ's feet 
and let Christ's words fill her heart and per- 
meate all her being. She must cultivate the 
virtues which alone give real beauty to any 
one — love, joy, peace, gentleness, patience, 
humility, and all the Christian graces. 
The true transformation of a life begins with 

[242] 



€^e flD&crc of t^e Ointment 

what we call the new birth — that is, with the 
coming of Christ into the heart. The beautiful 
life is a transfigured life and the heart of 
love is the secret of it. We cannot build a 
sweet and Christ-like life round a bad heart. 
When we think of it, too, we see that what are 
called the passive graces have very much to 
do with making one's life like sweet perfume. 
The passive graces are such as patience, for- 
bearance, meekness, humility, thought fulness. 
Jesus said, " Blessed are the meek." Someone 
illustrates meekness by saying that it is like 
one of those fragrant trees which bathes with 
its perfume the axe that smites into its wood. 
The meek man is one who gives back love for 
hate, kindness for unkindness, sweetness for 
bitterness. Jesus never resented any injury 
done to Him. Men wronged Him, but He loved 
on. On the cross, when they drove nails in His 
hands and feet, His only answer was a prayer 
for those who were causing Him the excru- 
ciating torture. 

Patience is another of the passive graces. Pa- 
tience suffers long and continues to be kind. 

[243] 



It beareth all things, endureth all things, 
never faileth. Humility is another of these 
graces. It vaunteth not itself, is not puffed 
up. It is lowly and does not seek to be known 
or to have its praises sung. There are many 
Christians who serve Christ and bless the world 
in such a quiet way that they are scarcely 
ever heard of. They do nothing that makes 
any noise. Like the Master, their voice is not 
heard in the streets. They fill no offices. They 
take no public part in the work of the church. 
They never speak in a meeting. Their names 
are never in the newspapers. Yet their influ- 
ence pours out in sweet, quiet, loving lives, like 
the perfume of flowers. The home in which 
they live and the little circle in which they 
move are filled with the odor of their influ- 
ence. 



[244] 



andet; tije au-^eeing €yz 



[245] 



When I run about all day, 
When I kneel at night to pray, 
God sees. 

When Tm dreaming in the dark. 
When I lie awake and hark, 
God sees. 

Need I ever know a fear? 
Night and day my Father's near — 
God sees. 

— Mary Mapes Dodge. 



[246] 



CHAPTER TWENTIETH 



fllttHet t^e au^eefng €ft 




OME people wish they 
could see Christ. If they 
could look upon Him, 
the}' say, it would be easy 
to love Him and to do His 
will. But if only we will 
remember that Christ always sees us, we shall 
have a still stronger impulse and motive to 
faithfulness and beautiful life. He knows us 
through and through. He reads our deepest 
thoughts. We cannot deceive Him. We may 
make men think we are good when we are not, 
but we cannot pass in Christ's sight for any- 
thing but what we really are. 
In a series of New Year's resolutions this is 
one, " To be filial to God as a son, loyal to 
Jesus Christ as a disciple, brotherly to my fel- 
lows as one born of a common parentage to a 
common heritage, and true to myself, that I 
be not a hypocrite in the sanctuary of my 

[247] 



soul." To such a resolve this truth of the all- 
seeing eye of Christ should lead us — never to 
be a hypocrite in the sanctuary of our soul. 
Our Lord condemned no other sin in such un- 
sparing words as He condemned hypocrisy. It 
is a pitiful play to be professing to serve God 
and honor Him, while the heart is full of 
worldliness and sin. We should give careful 
heed to our inner life. He with whom we have 
to do sees not as men see. Men look on the 
outer life ; Christ looks into the heart. 
Someone asked another, " Do you think our 
sainted ones in glory see us in this world and 
know what we do? " The answer was, " I do 
not know; but let us live always as if they 
did." That is what loyalty and love mean. 
What kind of faithfulness in friendship is that 
which does in a friend's absence what would 
not be done if the friend were present? Be- 
sides, we know that a dearer Friend than any 
merely human loved one does indeed see and 
know all. Let us do nothing that we would not 
do if we saw our Master standing beside us. 
There is special encouragement and inspira- 

[248] 



tion also in this truth of the omniscience of 
Christ. He knows all that is in us, the truth, 
the love, the faith, the desire to be faithful 
and to live worthily — the good as well as the 
evil. We know, too, that Christ ever looks for 
the good there is in us, not for that which is 
wrong. He sees us with optimistic vision. It is 
not always so with men. Too many people 
always look for faults, weaknesses, failures, 
sins, in others. Some seem even to find delight 
in discovering wrong things in those with 
whom they mingle. But that is not Christ's 
way of looking at our lives. He is always 
watching for the good in us. 
The Koran has a beautiful fancy about 
guardian angels. To every person two angels 
are assigned at birth — one the angel of good 
deeds, the other the angel of evil deeds. The 
angel of good deeds accompanies the man all 
day long and puts down in his book every 
good thing the man does, repeating it ten 
times, that nothing may be omitted. The angel 
of evil deeds writes down every evil thing the 
man does. At the close of the day they fly 

[249] 



Wfym ttye £>ong "Begins 

home to God with their report. The angel of 
good deeds says to his fellow-angel, " Forbear 
to report the man's wrong-doings for seven 
hours. Per adventure he will repent and be for- 
given, and then the record need not be made 
against him." It is thus that our Master feels 
toward us. He is quick to commend us for the 
good we do, for our obedience, our service, 
but He is reluctant and slow to set down evil 
against us. He would infinitely rather find 
good in us than evil. He considers our weak- 
ness, He knows how frail we are. He remem- 
bers that we are dust. He beseeches us to re- 
pent and be forgiven — that our sins be not 
charged to our account — and waits to be 
gracious. 

Christ looks with compassion upon our lives. 
He knows all the imperfections of our work, 
but He is infinitely patient with us in our mis- 
takes and failures. This was shown in the way 
He dealt with His disciples. Their progress 
was very slow, but He never chided them. He 
was the Son of God and the Son of man. There 
was not the least flaw in His life. He did all 

[250] 



His work perfectly. It is sometimes the ten- 
dency with very good people, those who know 
themselves to be very good, to be impatient 
toward those who are imperfect and are al- 
ways making mistakes, to be intolerant of 
their slips and failures. But Jesus was not im- 
patient with His disciples. They learned very 
slowly. They were all the time blundering and 
stumbling. Yet we never hear from their Mas- 
ter a word which tells of vexed or hurt feeling 
or of chiding because of their dulness or slow- 
ness or because of their many failures. 
Christ is very patient also with us. He asks 
for our best. He sets before us the loftiest 
ideals. He says, " Be ye perfect." He desires 
implicit obedience. He calls us to the best ser- 
vice we can render. He wants us to do our 
work well. Yet He is pitiful toward our weak- 
ness, tolerant of our frailties and failures. He 
does not cast us off when we sin, but forgives 
us, not seven times only, but seventy times 
seven. He bears with our faulty work. He re- 
members His own human life, its struggles, its 
trials, its weariness and pain, and sympathizes 

[251] 



with us in all that is hard in our lot. He has 
not forgotten the days of hard toil and how 
unfair men were in their demands. The bless- 
ing of the carpenter-shop at Nazareth where 
He wrought has come down through the cen- 
turies, making the Carpenter dearer to men in 
their task-work and assuring them of divine 
sympathy with them in all their work. 

" In the shop of Nazareth 
Pungent cedar haunts the breath. 
'Tis a low eastern room, 
Windowless, touched with gloom. 
Workman's bench and simple tools 
Line the walls — chests and stools, 
Yoke of ox, and shaft of plough, 
Finished by the Carpenter, 
Lie about the pavement now. 

"In the room the Craftsman stands, 
Stands and reaches out His hands. 

" Let the shadows veil His face 
If you must, and dimly trace 
His workman's tunic, girt with bands 
At His waist. But His hands — 
Let the light play on them ; 
Marks of toil lay on them 

[252] 



Faint with passion and with care, 
Every old scar showing there 
Where a tool slipped and hurt ; 
Show each callous; be alert 
For each deep line of toil. 
Show the soil 

Of the pitch ; and the strength 
Grips of helve give at length. 

" When night comes, and I turn 
From my shop where 1 earn 
Daily bread, let me see 
Those hard hands ; know that He 
Shared my lot, every bit ; 
Was a man, every whit. 

" Could I fear such a hand 
Stretched toward me ? Misunderstand 
Or mistrust ? Doubt that He 
Meets me full in sympathy ? 
Carpenter ! hard like Thine 
Is this hand — this of mine: 
I reach out, gripping Thee, 
Son of man, close to me, 
Close and fast, fearlessly." 

Christ knows also all the hard and painful 
things of our lives. Life for some people has 
much in it that is very discouraging. Burdens 

[253] 



Wtym tye ^>ong "Begins 

are heavy, comforts are few. Men suffer much. 
Those who scarcely ever know a care or have 
a hard day or are called to endure even the 
smallest want, have little conception of what 
some other people have to endure. There is 
not one of us, however, who may not some 
time be called to pass through experiences of 
suffering, hardship, or pain. Let us remember 
that Christ knows all. Let us set this truth be- 
fore our minds in such clear light that it shall 
shine in the darkness of suffering, pain, or 
want in days to come, like a star in the sky. 
If any time in the future we come into a place 
of gloom, when we cannot understand, when 
we cannot know what to do, when we can see 
no help in sight, no relief, then we may re- 
member that He knows. 

" He knows the bitter, weary way, 
The endless striving, day by day, 
The souls that weep, the souls that pray } 
He knows. 

" He knows how hard the -fight hath been, 
The clouds that come our lives between, 
The wounds the world hath never seen, 
He knows." 

[254] 



Christ knows us and all our life, and therefore 
makes no mistakes in dealing with us. In a 
private letter the writer says, " I sometimes 
wonder if my Master really knows how things 
in my life have become tangled, and if He 
really cares that I shall get out again into a 
way of peace." Yes; He knows all and He 
cares. There is nothing in any of our lives that 
He does not see. He is not indifferent to our 
happiness or to our good. Remember that He 
is the Master of the whole world — He over- 
came the world. There is no power that He left 
unconquered. There is nothing lawless, there- 
fore, or out of His control, in all this world. 
There is no suffering of ours, no pain, no dis- 
tress, which he could not instantly send away. 
The hard things that stay in our experience 
are there for our good and for His glory. 
Nothing sore or trying touches us but by His 
will. It is because He loves us that He lets us 
suffer. Let no one ever for a moment, in any 
time of suffering or sorrow, ask, " Does Jesus 
really know? Does He care? " He knows, He 
cares, He loves. We are in His hands. He is 

[255] 



doing the very best for us. Browning, in the 
lines quoted so often from Pippa Passes, 
voices a beautiful trust — 

God's in His heaven — 
All's right with the world. 

That is true—" God's in His heaven." But it 
is only part of the truth. God's in His world, 
too. We have no absentee God ; He is with us, 
closer than our closest friend. In His hands are 
all our affairs. He is shaping our life for us. 
When we think he does not know, He is lead- 
ing us through suffering to blessedness. We 
may trust Him in the darkest hour, in the time 
of sorest pain, in the experience of keenest 
sorrow. 

" // we could see, if we could know ! 

We often say ! 
But God in love a veil doth throw 

Across our way. 
We cannot see what lies before, 
And so we cling to Him the more. 
He leads us till this life is o'er. 

Trust and obey." 

[256] 



SEI 2 1905 



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